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S^Ari. Cdv'ft,. , -9
2,oBo
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IRVING'S CRAYON MISCELLANY.
PEOPLE'S EDITION.
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B i v\' V^ ■ .
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CRAYOM MIoCELLAny
BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
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THE
CRAYON MISCELLANY
BY
WASHINGTON IRVING.
THB AUTHOR'S REVISED EDITION.
COMPLETE IN 0101 VOLUME.
PHILADELPHIA:
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1870.
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Entered aocording to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
Geobob p. Potmam,
in the Clerk ^s Office of the District Court for the Soothom Diitrict
of New TorlL.
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CONTENTS.
A TOUR ON THE PRAIEIES.
piaa
CHAPTER L
The Pawnee Himtmg-Gromids. — Trayelling Compan-
ions. — A Commissioner. — A Yirtaoso. — A Seeker of
Adventures. — A Gil Bias of the Frontier. — A Tomig
lian*s Anticipations of Pleasure 11
CHAPTER n.
Anticipations disanpoititftd.~New Plans.— Preparations
to join an Esrolorinff Party. — Departure from Fort
GihBon. — Fording of the Verdigris. — An Indian Cav-
alier • ., • . .17
CHAPTER ra.
An Indian Agency. — Riflemen. — Osages, CreekSjTrap-
pers. Dogs, Horses, Half-breeds. — Beatte, the Hnnt»-
man 22
CHAPTER IV.
The Departure 27
CHAPTER V.
Frontier Scenes. — A Lycuigus of the Border. — L^ch*8
Law. — The Danger of finding a Horse. — The xonng
Osage 80
CHAPTER VI.
Trail of the Osage Hunters. — Departure of the Count
and his Party. — A Deserted War-Camp. — A Vagrant
Dog. — The Encampment 96
CHAPTER Vn.
ISfewB of the Rangers. — The Count and his Indian
Sqpiire. — Halt in the Woods. — Woodland Scene. —
Osage Village.— Osage Visitors at pur Evening Camp 40
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iv CONTENTS.
CHAPTER Vm. '^
The Honej Camp . . 48
CHAPTER IX.
A Bee-Hunt • 62
CHAPTER X.
Amiisements in the Camp. — Consultationfl. — Hunters'
Fare and Feasting. — Evening Scenes. — Camp Mel-
ody. — The Fate of an Amateur Owl . • . 67
CHAPTER XL
Breaking up of the Encampment. — Picturesque March.
Game. — Camp-Scenes. — Triumph of a Young Hunt-
er. — 111 Success of Old Hunters. — Foul Murder of
a Polecat * . . 64
CHAPTER Xn.
The Crossing of the Arkansas 7S
CHAPTER Xni.
Thb Camp of thb Glen.— Camp-Gossip.— Pawnees
and their Habits. — A Hunter's Adventtre. — Horses
found, and Men lost 76
CHAPTER XrV.
Deer-Shooting. — Life on the Pnuries. — BeautiftU En-
campment — Hunter's Ludc — Anecdotes of the Dela^
wares and their Superstitions 86
CHAPTER XV.
The Search for the Elk. — Pawnee Stories ... 94
CHAPTER XVL
A Siek-Camp.— The March.— The Disabled Horse.—
Old Ryan and the Stragglers. — Symptoms of Change
ofWMther, and Change of Humors . • .103
CHAPTER XVH.
Thunder-Storm on the Prairies. — The Storm-Encamp-
ment— mgfat Scene.- Indian Storiea.— A Fright-
ened Hone 100
CHAPTER XVnL
A Qiand Prairie.— Cliff Castle. — Bni&lo Tracks.—
DewhuitadbyWolvea.— Gross Timber . .115
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CONTENTB. V
PAOl
CHAPTER XIX.
flimten' Anticipations. — The Bagged Fozd. — A WUd
Hone . r ........ 120
CHAPTER XX.
Thx Camp of thk Wild Hobse.— Hunters* Stories. .
Habits of the WUd Horse. — The Half-breed and his
Prize. — A Horse-Chase. — A Wild Spirit tamed . 126
CHAPTER XXI.
The Fording of the Red Fork. — The Dreary Forests of
the "Cross Timber.»'— Buffalo! . . . . .184
CHAPTER XXn.
The Alarm Camp 189
CHAPTER XXni.
Beaver Dam. — Buffalo and Horse Tracks.— A Pawnee
Trail.— WUd Horses. — The Toong Hunter and the
Bear.— Change of Route 148
CHAPTER XXIV.
Seardty of Bread. — Rencontre with Buffidoes. — Wild
Turkeys.— EbU of a Buffido Bull • . . . 155
CHAPTER XXV.
Ringfaig the WUd Horse 160
CHAPTER XXVL
Fording of the North Fork. — Dreary Scenerr of the
Cross Timber. — Scamper of Horses in the Kight —
Osi^e War-Party. — fSOTects of a Peace Harangue. —
BuffiOo.- WUd Horse 166
CHAPTER XXVH.
Foul-Weather Encampment — Anecdotes of Bear-Hunt-
ing. — Indian Notions about Omens. — Scruples Re-
jecting the Dead 171
CHAPTER XXVra.
A86cietExpedition.—Deer-Bleating.— Magic Balla .182
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Grand Prairie.— A Buffido Hunt . . • .188
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Vi CONTENTS.
PAa
CHAPTER XXX.
4 Comrade lost —A Search for the Camp.— The Com-
missioner, the Wild Horse, and the Buffalo. —A Wolf
Serenade . . . . . . . . .199
CHAPTER XXXI.
A Hnnt for a Lost Comrade 2J4
CHAPTER XXXn.
A Republic of Prairie-Dogs .210
CHAPTER XXXm.
A Council in the Camp. —Reasons for Facing Home-
wards.— Horses lost. — Departure with a Detachment
on the Homeward Route. — Swamp.— Wild Horse. —
Camp -Scene bj Night — The Owl, Harbinger of
Dawn 215
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Old Creek Encampment. — Scarcity of Provisions. — Bad
Weather. — Weaiy Marching. — A Hunter's Bridge . 225
CHAPTER XXXV.
A Look-out for Land.— Hard Travelling and Hungiy
Halting. — A Frontier Farm-house. — Arrival at the
Garrison • .232
ABBOTSFORD.
Abbotsfobd • • • 248
NEWSTEAD ABBEY.
HiSTOBiGAL NoncB 323
Arrival at thb Abbbt 834
The Abbey Garden 342
PiiOUGH Monday 350
Old Sebyazits 355
Superstitions of the Abbey • . • • . .361
Annesley Hall 371
The Lake 395
Robin Hood and Sherwood Fobbst . . . .309
The Rook Ce^l 410
The Little Wbttb Lady 416
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INTRODUCTION.
jjAVING, since my return to the United
States, made a wide and varied tour, for
the gratification of my curiosity, it has been
supposed that I did it for the purpose of
writing a book ; and it has more than once been inti-
mated in the papers, that such a work was actually
in the press, containing scenes and sketches of the
Far West.
These announcements, gratuitously made for me,
before I had put pen to paper, or even contemplated
anything of tiie kind, have embarrassed me exceed-
ingly. I have been like a poor actor, who finds him-
self announced for a part he had no thought of play-
ing, and his appearance expected on the stage before
he has committed a line to memory.
I have always had a repugnance, amounting almost
to disability, to write in the face of expectation ; and,
in the present instance, I was expected to write
about a region finiitfiil of wonders and adventures,
and which had already been made the theme of
spirit-stirring narratives firom able pens, yet about
which I had nothing wonderful or adventurous to
offer.
SiDDe such, however, seems to be the desire of the
jpoblic, and that they take sufficient interest in my
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Viii INTRODUCTION.
wanderings to deem them worthy of recital, I have
hastened, as promptly as possible, to meet in some
degree the expectation which others have excited.
For this purpose, I have, as it were, plucked a few
leaves out of my memorandum book, containing a
month's foray beyond the outposts of human habita-
tion, into the wilderness of the Far West It forms,
indeed, but a small portion of an extensive tour ; but
it is an episode, complete as far as it goes. As such
I offer it to the public with great diffidence. It is
a simple narrative of every-day occurrences, such as
happen to every one who travels the prairies. I have
no wonders to describe, nor any moving accidents by
flood or field to narrate ; and as to those who look for
a marvellous or adventurous story at my hands, I can
only reply in the words of the weary knife-grinder :
^* Stoiyl God bless you, I have none to tell, sir.''
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES.
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES.
CHAPTER L
Tn FAWNBi HinfTnrcHnfcouirx>8.— TXATSLLnrs oompahioits. —-a com-
imSIOinBK.— A TIRTUOSO.— A SXSKXB OF ASTXHTUKI8.— A OIL BLA8
or THI reOKTDEB. — A TOUHO MAX*! AUTIOZPATIOHS OF PUASUBI.
In the often vaonted regions of the Far
West, several hundred miles beyond the
Mississippi, extends a vast tract of un-
inhabited country, where there is neither to be
seen the log house of the white man, nor the
wigwam of the Indian. It consists of great
grassy plains, interspersed with forests and groves,
and dumps of trees, and watered by the Arkan-
sas, the grand Canadian, the Red River, and
their tributary streams. Over these fertile and
verdant wastes still roam the elk, the buffalo, and
the wild horse, in all their native freedom.
These, in fact, are the hunting-grounds of the va-
rious tribes of the Far West Hither repair the
Osage, the Creek, the Delaware and other tribes
that have linked themselves with civilization, and
live within the vicinity of the white settlements.
Here resort also the Pawnees, the Comanches,
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12 CRAYON MIBCELLANT.
and other fierce and as yet independent tribes,
the nomads of the prairies, or the inhabitants of
the skirts of the Rocky Mountains. The regions
I have mentioned form a debatable ground of
these warring and vindictive tribes ; none of them
presume to erect a permanent habitation within
its borders. Their hunters and ^ Braves " repair
thither in numerous bodies during the season pf
game, thro^ up their transient hunting-camps,
consisting of light bowers covered with bark and
skins, commit sad havoc among the innumerable
herds that graze the prairies, and having loaded
themselves with venison and buffalo meat, warily
retire from the dangerous neighborhood. These
expeditions partake, always, of a warlike charac-
ter ; the hunters are all armed for action, offen-
sive and defensive, and are bound to incessant vig-
ilance. Should they, in their exc^ursions, meet the
hunters of an adverse tribe, savage conflicts take
place. Their encampments, too, are always sub-
ject to be surprised by wandering war parties,
and their hunters, when scattered in pursuit of
game, to be captured or massacred by lurking
foes. Mouldering skulls and skeletons, bleaching
in some dark ravine or near the traces of a hunt-
ing-camp, occasionally mark the scene of a fore-
gone act of blood, and let the wanderer know the
dangerous nature of the region he is traversing.
It is the purport of the following pages to nar-
rate a month's excursion to these noted hunting
grounds, through a tract of country which had
not as yet been explored by white men.
It was early in October, 1832, that I arrived
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A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES 18
at Fort Gibson, a frontier post of the Far West,
sitaated on the Neosho, or Grand Kiver, near its
confluence with the Arkansas. I had been trav-
elling for a month past, with a small party from
St. Louis, up the banks of the Missouri, and along
the frontier line of agencies and missions, that
extends from the Missouri to the Arkansas. Our
party was headed by one of the Commissioners
appointed by the government of the United States
to superintend the settlement of the Indian tribes
migrating from the east to the west of the Missis-
sippi. In the discharge of his duties, he was
thus visiting the various outposts of civilization.
And here let me bear testimony to the merits
of this worthy leader of our little band. He was
a native of one of the towns of Connecticut, a
man in whom a course of legal practice and po-
litical life had not been able to vitiate, an innate
simplicity and benevolence of heart. The greater
part of his days had been passed in the bosom of
his family and the society of deacons, elders, and
selectmen, on the peaceful banks of the Connec-
ticut ; when suddenly he had been called to mount
his steed, shoulder his rifle, and mingle among
stark hunters, backwoodsmen, and naked savages,
on the trackless wilds of the Far West.
Another of my fellow-travellers was Mr. L.,
an Englishman by birth, but descended from a
foreign stock ; and who had all the buoyancy and
accommodating spirit of a native of the Conti-
nent. Having rambled over many countries, he
had become, to a certain degree, a citizen of the
world, easily adapting himself to any change.
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14 CBA YON MISCELLANY.
V
He was a man of a thousand occupations ; a bot-
anist, a geologist, a hunter of beetles and butter-
flies, a musical amateur, a sketcher of no mean
pretensions, in short, a complete virtuoso ; added
to which, he was a very indefatigable, if not al-
ways a very successful, sportsman. Never had a
maa more irons in the fire, and, consequently,
never was man more busy nor more cheerful.
My third fellow-traveller was one who had ac-
companied the former from Europe, and travelled
with him as his Telemachus ; being apt, like his
prototype, to give occasional perplexity and dis-
quiet to his Mentor. He was a young Swiss
Count, scarce twenty-one years of age, ftill of
talent and spirit, but galliard in the extreme, and
prone to every kind'bf wild adventure.
Having made this mention of my comrades, I
must not pass over unnoticed a personage of in-
ferior rank, but of all-pervading and prevalent
importance, — the squire, the groom, the cook, the
tent-man, in a word, the factotum, and, I may
add, the universal meddler and marplot of our
party. This wa&a little, swarthy, meagre, French
Creole, named Antoine, but familiarly dubbed
Tonish, — a kind of Gil Bias of the frontiers, who
had passed a scrambling life, sometimes among
white men, sometimes among Indians ; sometimes
in the employ of traders, missionaries, and Indian
agents ; sometimes mingling with the Osage hunt-
ers. We picked him up at St. Louis, near which
he has a small farm, an Indian wife, and a brood
of half-blood children. According to his own ac-
count, however, he had a wife in every tribe ; in
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A TOVR ON THE PRAIRIES, 15
&et, if all this little vagabond said of himself were
to be believed, he was without morals, without
caste, without creed, without country, and even
without language; for he spoke a jargon of
mingled French, English, and Osage. He was,
withal, a notorious braggart, and a liar of the first
water. It was amusing to hear him vapor and
gasconade about his terrible exploits and hair-
breadth escapes in war and hunting. In the
midst of his volubility he was prone to be seized
by a spasmodic gasping, as if the springs of his
jaws were suddenly unhinged ; but I am apt to
think it was caused by some falsehood that stuck
in his throat, for I generally remarked that im-
mediately afterwards there bolted forth a lie of
the first magnitude.
Our route had been a pleasant one, quartering
ourselves, occasionally, at the widely separated
establishments of the Indian missionaries, but in
general camping out in the fine groves that bor-
der the streams, and sleeping under cover of a
tent. During the latter part of our tour we had
pressed forward in hopes of arriving in time at
Fort Gibson, to accompany the Osage hunters on
their autumnal visit to the bufialo prairies. In-
deed the imagination of the young Count had
become completely excited on the subject The
grand scenery and wild habits of the prairies had
set his spirits madding, and the stories that little
Tonish told him of Indian braves and Indian
beauties, of hunting buffaloes and catching wild
horses, had set him all agog for a dash into sav-
age life. He was a bold and hard rider, and
2
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16 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
longed to be scouring the hunting-groands. It
was amusing to hear his youthful anticipations of
all that he was to see, and do, and enjoj, when
mingling among the Indians and participating in .
their hardy adventures ; and it was still more
amusing to listen to the gasconadings of littlo
Tonish, who volunteered to be his faithful squire
in all his perilous undertakings; to teach him
how to catch the wild horse, bring down the buf-
fiedo, and win the smiles of Indian princesses ; —
^ And if we can only get sight of a prairie on
are I" said the young Count — " By Gar, I 'U set
one on fire myself I " cried the little Frenehman.
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CHAPTER n.
AJRioxpAnovs DiSAPPonmi). — kxw plans. — pupabatioks to join
ANXXPLOKOTQ PABTT. — DXPABTUKK PBOM FOBT OIBSOV. — POBBOra
OP THB TXBDIO&IS. — AIT DDIAM OATALUB.
IHE anticipations of a young man are
prone to meet with disappointment
Unfortunately for the Count's scheme
of wild campaigning, before we reached the end
of our journey, we heard that the Osage himters
had set forth upon their expedition to the buffalo
grounds. The Count still determined, if possible,
to follow on their track and overtake them, and
for this purpose stopped siiort at the Osage
Agency, a few miles distant from Fort Gibson, to
make inquiries and preparations. His travelling
companion, Mr. L., stopped with him ; while the
Commissioner and myself proceeded to Fort Gib-
son, followed by the fiiithful and veracious Ton-
ish. I hinted to him his promises to follow the
Count in his campaignings, but I found the little
varlet had a keen eye to self-interest. He was
aware that the Commissioner, from his official du-
ties, would remain for a long time in the country,
and be likely to give him permanent employment,
while the sojourn of the Count would be but tran-
sient. The gasconading of the little braggart was
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18 CRAYON MI8CELLANT.
suddenly therefore at an end. He spoke not
another word to the young Count about Indians,
buffaloes, and wild horses, but putting himself
tacitly in the train of the Conunissioner, jogged
silently after us to the garrison.
On arriving at the fort, however, a new chance
presented itself for a cruise on the prairies. We
learnt that a company of mounted rangers, or
riflemen, had departed but three days previous^
to make a wide exploring tour, from the Arkan-
sas to the Red River, including a part of the
Pawnee hunting -gix)unds, where no party of
white men had as yet penetrated. Heye, then,
was an opportunity of ranging over those danger-
ous and interesting regions under the safeguard
of a powerful escort ; for the Commissioner, in
virtue of his oflSce, could claim the service of
this newly raised corps of riflemen, and the
country they were to explore was destined for
the settlement of some of the migrating tribes
connected with his mission.
Our plan was promptly formed and put into
execution. A couple of Creek Indians were sent
off express, by the commander of Fort Gibson,
to overtake the rangers and bring them to a halt
until the Commissioner and his party should be
able to join them. As we should have a march
of three or four days through a wild country,
before we could overtake the company of rangers,
an escort of fourteen mounted riflemen, under the
command of a lieutenant, was assigned us.
We sent word to the young Count and Mr. L.
at the Osage Agency, of our new plan and pros-
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIEB. 19
pects, and invited them to accompany as. The
County however, could not forego the delights he
had promised himself in minglmg with absolutely
savage life. In reply, he agreed to keep with us
until we should come upon the trail of ^e Osage
hunters, when it was his fixed resolve to strike
off into the wilderness in pursuit of them ; and
his faithful Mentor, though he grieved at the
madness of the scheme, was too stanch a friend
to desert him. A general rendezvous of our
party and esc9rt was appointed, for the following
morning, at the Agency.
We now made all arrangements for -prompt
departure. Our baggage had hitherto been trans-
ported on a light wagon, but we were now to
break our way through an untravelled country,
cut up by rivers, ravines, and thickets, where a
vehicle of the kind would be a complete impedi-
ment. We were to travel on horseback, in hun-
ters' style, and with as little encumbrance as pos-
sible. Our baggage, therefore, underwent a rigid
and most abstemious reduction. A pair of sad-
dlebags, and those by no means crammed, suflBiced'
for each man's scanty wardrobe, and, with his
great-coat, were to be carried upon the steed he
rode. The rest of the baggage was placed on
pack-hoi-ses. Each one had a bear-skin and a
couple of blankets for bedding, and there was a
tent to shelter us in case of sickness or bad
weather. We took care to provide ourselves
with flour, coffee, and sugar, together with a
small supply of salt pork for emergencies ; for
our main subsistence we were to depend upon
the chose.
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20 CRA/ON MISCELLANY.
Such of our horses as had not been tired out
in our recent journey, were taken with us as pack-
horses, or supernumeraries ; but as we were go-
ing on a long and rough tour, where there would
be occasional hunting, and where, in case of
meeting with hostile savages, the safety of the
rider might depend upon the goodness of his
steed, we took care to be well mounted. I pro-
cured a stout silver-gray ; somewhat rough, but
stanch and powerful ; and retained a hardy pony
which I had hitherto ridden, and which, being
somewhat jaded, was suffered to ramble along
with the pack-horses, to be mounted only in case
of emergency.
All these arrangements being made, we left
Fort Gibson on the morning of the tenth of
October, and crossing the river in the front of it,
set off for the rendezvous at the Agency. A ride
of a few miles brought us to the ford of the Ver-
digris, a wild rocky scene overhung with forest-
trees. We descended to the bank of the river
and crossed in straggling file, the horses stepping
cautiously from rock to rock, and in a manner
feeling about for a foothold beneath the rushing
and brawling stream.
Our little Frenchman, Tonish, brought up the
rear with tKe pack-horses. He was in high glee,
having experienced a kind of promotion. In our
journey hitherto he had driven the wagon, which
he seemed to consider a very inferior employ ;
now he was master of the horse.
He sat perched like a monkey behind the pack
on one of the horses; he sang, he shouted, he
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 21
yelped like an Indian, and ever and anon blas-
phemed the loitering pack-horses in his jargon rf
mingled French, English, .and Osage, which not
one of them could understand.
As we were crossing the ford we saw on the
opposite shore a Creek Indian on horseback. He
had paused to reconnoitre us from the brow of a
rock, and formed a picturesque object, in unison
with the wild scenery around him. He wore a
bright -blue huntmg- shirt trimmed with scarlet
fringe ; a gayly colored handkerchief was bound
round his head something like a turban, with one
end hanging down beside his ear; he held a long
rifle in his hand, and looked Hke a wild Arab on
^e prowL Our loquacious and ever-meddling
little Frenchman called out to him in his Baby-
lonish jargon, but the siavage, having satisfied Us
curiosity, tossed his hand in the air, turned the
head of his steed, and galloping along the shore
soon disappeared among the trees.
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CHAPTER m.
AH mux AeiNCT.— BIFUSMEN. — OSAGXS, ORBBKS, TRAPPXSS, XK>a8 >
HORSES, HALF-BBEXDS. — BBATTX, THB HUNTSMAN.
IIAVING crossed the ford, we soon
reached the Osage Agency where Col.
Choteau has his offices and magazines,
for the dispatch of Indian affairs, and the distri-
bution of presents and supplies. It consisted of
a few log houses on the banks of the river, and
presented a motley frontier scene. Here was our
escort awaiting our arrival ; some were on horse-
back, some on foot, some seated on the trunks of
fallen trees, some shooting at a mark. They
were a heterogeneous crew : some in frock-coats
made of green blankets ; others in leathern hunt
ing-shirts, but the most part in marvellously ill
cut garments, much the worse for wear, and
evidently put on for rugged service.
Near by these was a group of Osages : stately
fellows; stern and simple in garb and aspect
They wore no ornaments ; their dress consisted
merely of blankets, leggins, and moccasons. Their
heads were bare ; their hair was cropped dose,
excepting a bristling ridge on the top, like the
crest of a helmet, with a long scalp-lock hanging
behind. They had fine Roman countenances, and
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 23
broad deep chests ; and, as they generally wore
their blankets wrapped round their loins, so as to
leave the bust and arms bare, they looked like so
many noble bronze figures. The Osages are the
finest -looking Indians I have ever seen in the
West They have not yielded sufficiently as
yet to the influence of civilization to lay by their
simple Indian garb, or to lose the habits of the
hunter and the warrior ; and their poverty pre-
vents their indulging in much luxury of apparel.
In contrast to these was a gayly dressed party
of Creeks. There is something, at the first glance,
quite Oriental in the appearance of this tribe.
They dress in calico hunting-shirts, of various
brilliant colors, decorated with bright fringes,
and belted with broad girdles, embroidered with
beads ; they have leggins of dressed deer-skins,
or of green or scarlet cloth, with embroidered
knee-bands and tassels ; their moccas<nis are fan-
cifully wrought and ornamented, and they wear
gaudy handkerchiefs tastefully bound round their
heads.
Beside these, there was a sprinkling of trap-
pers, hunters, half-breeds, Creoles, negroes of every
hue; and all that other rabble rout of nonde-
script beings that keep about the frontiers, be-
tween civilized and savage life, as those equivo-
cal birds, the bats, hover about the confines of
light and darkness.
The little hamlet of the Agency was in a com-
plete bustle ; the blacksmith's shed, in particular,
iras a scene of preparation ; a strapping negro
was shoeing a horse ; two half-breeds were fabri-
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24 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
eating iroD spoons in which to melt lead for bul-
lets. An old trapper, in leathern hunting-frock
and moccasons, had placed his rifle against a
work-bench, while he superintended the opera-
tion, and gossiped about his himting exploits;
several large dogs were lounging in and out of
the shop, or sleeping in the sunshine, while a little
cur, with head cocked on one side, and one ear
erect, was watching, with that curiosity common
to little dogs, the process of shoeing the horse, as
if studying the art, or waiting for his turn to be
shod.
We found the Count and his companion, the
Virtuoso, ready for the march. As they in-
tended to overtake the Osages, and pass some
time in hunting the buffalo and the wild horse,
they had provided themselves accordingly ; hav-
ing, in addition to the steeds which they used for
travelling, (Others of prime quality, which were to
be led when on the march, and only to be
moimted for the chase.
They had, moreover, engaged the services of a
young man- named Antoine, a half-breed of French
and Osage origin. He was to be a kind of Jack-
of-all-work ; to cook, to himt, and to take care of
the horses ; but he had a vehement propensity to
do nothing, being one of the worthless brood en-
gendered and brought up among the missions*
He was, moreover, a little spoiled by being really
a handsome young fellow, an Adonis of the front-
ier, and still worse by fancying himself highly
connected, his sister being concubine to an opu-
lent white trader !
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A TOUR ON THE PBAIBIES. 25
For our own parts, the Commissioner and my-
self were desirous, before setting out, to procure
another attendant well versed in wood-craft, who
might serve us as a hunter ; for our little French-
man would have his hands full when in camp, in
cooking, and on the march, in taking eare of the
pack-horses. Such a one presented himself, op
rather was recommended to us, in Pierre Beatte,
a half-breed of French andj>sage parentage.
We were assured that he was acquainted with all
parts of the country, having traversed it in all
directions, both in hunting and war parties ; that
he would be of use both as guide and interpreter,
and that he was a first-rate hunter.
I confess I did not like his looks when he was
first presented to me. He was lounging about,
in an old hunting-fix)ck and metasses or leggins,
of deer-skin, soiled and greased, and almost
japanned by constant use. He was apparently
about thirty-six years of age, square and strongly
built. His features were not bad, being shaped
not unlike those of Napoleon, but sharpened up,
with high Indian cheek-bones. Perhaps the dusky
greenish hue of his complexion aided his resem-
blance to an old bronze bust I had seen of the
Emperor. He had, however, a sullen, saturnine
expression, set off by a slouched woollen hat, and
elf-locks that hung about his ears.
Such was the appearance of the man, and his
manners were equally unprepossessing. He was
cold and laconic ; made no promises or profes-
sions ; stated the terms he required for the ser-
vices of himself and his horse, which we thought
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26 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
rather high, but showed no disposition to abate
them, nor any anxiety to secure our employ. Hp
had altogether more of the red than the white
man in his composition ; and, as I had been taught
to look upon all half-breeds with distrust, as an
uncertain and faithless ra<;e, I would gladly have
dispensed with the services of Pierre Beatte. We
had no time, however, to look out for any one
more to our tast^ and had to make an arrange-
ment with him on the spot. He then set about
making his preparations for the journey, promising
to join us at our evening's encampment.
One thing was yet wanting to fit me out for
the Prairies — a thoroughly trustworthy steed ;
I was not yet mounted to my mind. The gray
I had bought, though strong and serviceable, was
rough. At the last moment I succeeded in get-
ting an excellent animal : a dark bay ; powerful,
active, generous-spirited, and in capital condition.
I mounted him with exultation, and transferred
the silver gray to Tonish, who was in such ecsta-
sies at finding himself so completely en Cavar-
lier, that I feared he might realize the ancient
and well-known proverb of " a beggar on horse-
back."
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CHAPTER IV.
THl DXPA&TUKX.
[HE long-drawn notes of a bugle at length
gave the signal for departure. The ran-
gers filed off in a straggling line of
march through the woods: we were soon on
horseback and following on, but were detained
by the irregularity of the pack - horses. They
were unaccustomed to keep the line, and straggled
from side to side among the thickets, in spite of
all the pesting and bedeviling of Tonish; who,
mounted on his gallant gray, with a long rifle
on his shoulder, worried after them, bestowing a
superabundance of dry blows and curses.
We soon, therefore, lost sight of our escort,
but managed to keep on their track, thridding
lofty forests, and entangled thickets, and passing
by Indian wigwams and negro huts, until towards
dusk we arrived at a frontier farm-house, owned
by a settler of the name of Berryhill. It was
situated on a hill, below which the rangers had
encamped in a circular grove, on the margin of a
stream. The master of the house received us
civilly, but could offer us no accommodation, for
sickness prevailed in his family. He appeared
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m
28 CRAYON MiaCELLANr.
himself to be in no very thriving condition, for
though bulky in frame, he had a sallow, unhealthy
complexion, and a whiffling double voice, shifting
abruptly from a treble to a thorough-bass.
Finding his log house was a mere hospital,
crowded with invalids, we ordered our tent to be
pitched in the farm-yard.
We had not been long encamped, when our re-
cently engaged attendant, Beatte, the Osage half-
breed, made his appearance. He came moimted
on one horse and leading another, which seemed
to be well packed with supplies for the expedi-
tion. Beatte was evidently an " old soldier," as
to the art of taking care of himself and looking
out for emergencies. Finding that he was in
government employ, being engaged by the Com-
missioner, he had drawn rations of flour and
bacon, and put them up so as to be weather-proof.
In addition to the horse for the road and for or-
dinary service, which was a roughs hardy animal,
he had another for hunting. This was of a mixed
breed like himself, being a cross of the domestic
stock with the wild horse of the prairies ; and a
noble steed it was, of generous spirit, fine action,
and admirable bottom. He had taken care to
have his horses well shod at the Agency. He
came prepared at all points for war or hunting :
his rifle on his shoulder, his powder-horn and
bullet-pouch at his side, his hunting-knife stuck
in his belt, and coils of cordage at his saddle-bow,
which we were told were lariats, or noosed cords,
used in catching the wild horse.
Thus equipped and provided, an Indian hunter
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A TOUR ON THE PRAJR1E8. 29-
on a prairie is like a cruiser on the ocean, per-
fectly independent of the world, and competent
to self-protection and self-maintenance. He can
cast himself loose from every one, shape his own
course, and take care of his own fortunes. I
thought Beatte seemed to feel his independence,
and to consider himself superior to us all, now
that we were launching into the wilderness. He
maintained a half proud, half sullen look, and
great taciturnity ; and his first care was to unpack
his horses and put them in safe quarters for the
night His whole demeanor was in perfect con-
trast to our vaporing, chattering, bustling little
Frenchman. The latter, too, seemed jealous of
this new-comer. He whispered to us that these
half-breeds were a touchy, capricious people, little
to be depended upon; that Beatte had evidently
come prepared to take care of himself, and that,
at any moment in the course of our tour, he
would be liable to take some sudden disgust or
affront, and abandon us at a moment's warning :
having the means of shifting £)r himself, and
being perfectly at home on the prairies.
d by Google
CHAPTER V.
»
FEONTIBB SOKNISS.— ALYOUEOUS OP THE BOKCEB. — LIKOH'S LAW. —
THE DANGEK OF FINDINQ A HOBSE. — THE TOUKO OSAOE.
N the following morning, (Oct. 11,) we
were on the march by half-past seven
o'clock, and rode through deep rich bot-
toms of alluvial soil, overgrown with redundant
vegetation, and trees of an enormous size. Our
route lay parallel to the west bank of the Arkan-
sas, on the borders of which river, near the con-
fluence of the Red Fork, we expected to overtake
the main body of rangers. For some miles the
country was sprinkled with Creek villages and
farm-houses; the inhabitants of which appeared
to have adopted, with considerable facility, the
rudiments of civilization, and to have thriven in
consequence. Their farms were well stocked,
and their houses had a look of comfort and
abundance.
We met with numbers of them returning from
one of their grand games of ball, for which their
nation is celebrated. Some were on foot, some
on horseback ; the latter, occasionally, with gayly
dressed females behind them. They are a well-
made race, muscular and closely knit, with well-
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A TOUR ON THE PRAJRJE8. 81
tamed thighs and legs. They have a Gyps^
fondness for brilliant colors and gay decorations,
and are bright and fanciful objects when seen at
a distance on the prairies. One had a scarlet
handkerchief bound round his head, surmounted
with a tuft of black feathers like a cock's tail ;
another had a white handkerchief, with red
feathers ; while a third, for want of a plume, had
stuck in his turban a brilliant bunch of sumach.
On the verge of the wilderness we paused to
inquire our way at a log house owned by a white
settler or squatter ; a tall, rawboned, old fellow^
with red hair, a lank lantern visage, and an invet-
erate habit of winking with one eye, as if every-
thing he said was of knowing import. He was in
a towering passion. One of his horses was miss-
ing ; he was sure it had been stolen in the night
by a straggling party of Osages encamped in a
neighboring swamp ; but he would have satisfac«
tion I He would make an example of the villains.
He had accordingly caught down his rifle from
the wall, that invariable enforcer of right or
wrong upon the frontiers, and, having saddled his
steed, was about to sally forth on a foray into the
swamp; while a brother squatter, with rifle in
band, stood ready to accompany him.
We endeavored to calm the old campaigner of
the prairies, by suggesting that his horse might
have strayed into the neighboring woods ; but he
bad the frontier propensity to charge overything
to the Indians, and nothing could dissuade him
from carrying Are and sword into the swamp.
After riding a few miles further, we lost the'
3
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»
S2 CRA70N MISCELLANY.
tndl of the main body of rangers, and becamo
perplexed by a variety of tracks made by the
Indians and settlers. At length coming to a log
house, inhabited by a white man, the very last
on the frontier, we found that we had wandered
from our true course. Taking us back for some
distance, he again brought us to the right trail ;
putting ourselves upon which, we took our final
departure, and launched into the broad wilderness.
The trail kept on like a straggling footpath,
over hill and dale, through brush and brake, and
tangled thicket, and open prairie. In traversing
the wilds, it is customary for a party, either of
luHBe or foot, to follow each other in single file
like the Indians ; so that the leaders break the
way for those who follow, and lessen their labor
and fatigue. In this way, also, the number of a
party is concealed, the whole leaving but one nar-
row well-trampled track to mark their course.
We had not long regained the trail, when, on
emerging from a forest, we beheld our rawboned,
hard-winking, hard-riding knight-errant of the
frontier, descending the slope of a hiU, followed
by his companion in arms. As he drew near to
us, the gauntness of his figure and ruefulness ^
his aspect reminded me of the description of the
hero of La Mancha, and he was equally bent on
affairs of doughty enterprise, being about to pen-
etrate the thidcets of the perilous swamp, within
which the enemy lay ensconced.
While we were holding a parley with him on
the slope of the hill, we descried an Osage on
horseback issuing out of a skirt of wood about
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A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 88
half a mfle off, and leading a horse hy a halter.
The latter was immediately recognized by our
hard-winking friend as the steed of which he was
in quest. As the Osage drew near, I was struck
with his appearance. He was about nineteen or
twenty years of age, but well grown, with the
fine Roman countenance common to his tribe ; and
as he rode, with his blanket wrapped round his
loins, his naked bust would have furnished a
model fi)r a statuary. He was mounted on a
beautiful piebald horse, a mottled white and
brown, of the wild breed of the prairies, deco-
rated with a broad collar, from which hung in front
a tuft of horse-hair dyed of a bright scarlet
The youth rode slowly up to us with a frank
open air, and signified by means of our interpreter
Beatte, that the horse he was leading had wan-
dered to their camp, and he was now on his way
to conduct him back to his owner.
I had expected to witness an expression of
gratitude on the part of our hard-favored cavalier,
but to my surprise the old fellow broke out into
a fruious passion. He declared that the Indians
had carried off his horse in the night, with the
intention of bringing him home in the morning,
and claiming a reward for finding him : a com-
mon practice, as he affirmed, among the Indians.
He was, therefore, for tying the yoimg Indian to
a tree and giving him a sound lashing ; and was
quite surprised at the burst of indignation which
this novel mode of requiting a service drew from
ttB. Such, however, is too often the administra-
tion of law on the frontier^ << Lynch's law," as it
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34 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
is technically termed, in which the plaintiff is apt'
to be witness, jury, judge, and executioner, and
the defendant to be convicted and punished on
mere presumption ; and in this way, I am con-
vinced, are occasioned many of those heart-burn-
ings and resentments among the Indians, which
lead to retaliation, and end in Indian wars.
When I compared the open, noble countenance
and frank demeanor of the young Osage with
the sinister visage and high-handed conduct of the
firontiersman, I felt little doubt on whose back
a lash would be most meritoriously bestowed.
Being thus obliged to content lidmself with the
recovery of his horse, without the pleasure of
flogging the finder into the bargain, the old Ly-
curgus, or rather Draco, of the frontier, set off
growling on his return homeward, followed by his
brother-squatter.
As for the youthful Osage, we were all pre-
possessed in his fevor; the young Count espc-
dally, with the sympathies proper to his age and
incident to his character, had taken quite a &ncy
to him. Nothing would suit but he must have
the young Osage as a companion and squire in
his expedition into the wilderness. The youth
was easily tempted, and, with the prospect of a
safe range over the buffalo prairies and ^e prom-
ise of a new blanket, he turned his bridle, left
the swamp and the encampnfent of his friends
behind him, and set off to follow the Count in
his wanderings in quest of the Osage hunters.
Such is the glorious independence of man in a
savage state. This youth, with his rifle, his
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIE8. M
blanket, and his horse, was ready at a moment's
warning to rove the world; he carried all his
worldly effects with him, and in the absence of
artificial wants possessed the great secret of per-
sonal freedom. We of society are slaves, not so
much to others as to ourselves; our superflu-
ities are the chains that bind us, impeding every
movement of our bodies, and thwarting every im-
pulse of our souls. Such, at least, were my
speculations at the time, though I am not sure
but that they took their tone from the enthusiasm
of the young Count, who seemed more enchanted
than ever with the wild chivalry of the prairies,
and talked of putting on the Indian dress and
adopting the Indian habits during the time he
hoped to pass with the Osages.
d by Google
CHAPTER VI.
fEAIL or Sn OSA« HUMnBS. -> SIPAETTIEB Of THl COWKT AHS HI8
PA&TT. — A DBSXKTSD WAE-OAKP. — A yAORAHT DOG. — THX XIT-
OAMPXKHT.
JN the course of the morning the trail wa
were pursuing was crossed by another,
which struck off through the forest to
the west in a direct course for the Arkansas
River. Beatte, our half-breed, after considering
it for a moment, pronounced it the trail of the
Osage hunters ; and that it must lead to the place
where they had forded the river on their way to
the hunting-grounds.
Here then the young Count and his companion
came to a halt and prepare^ to take leave of us.
The most experienced frontiersmen in the troop
remonstrated on the hassard of the undertaking.
They were about to throw themselves loose in the
wilderness, with no other guides, guards, or at-
tendants than a young ignorant half-breed, and
a still younger Indian. They were embarrassed
by a pack-horse and two led horses, with which
they would have to make their way through mat-
ted forests, and across rivers and morasses. The
Osages and Pawnees were at war, and they might
£dl in with some warrior party of the latter, who
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 97
are ferocious foes; besides, tlieir small number,
and their valuable horses would form a great
temptation to some oi the straggling bands of
Osages loitering about the frontier, who im^t
rob them of their horses in the night, and leave
them destitute and on foot in the midst of the
prairies.
Nothing, however, could restrain the romantk
ardor <^ the Count for a campaign of buffalo-hunt-
ing with the Osages, and he had a game spirit that
seemed always stimulated by the idea of danger.
His travelling companion, of discreeter age and
calmer temperament, was convinced of the rash-
ness g£ the enterprise ; but he could not control
the impetuous zeal of his youthful friend, and he
was too loyal to leave him to pursue his hazard-
ous scheme alone. To our great regret, there-
fore, we saw them abandon the protection of our
escort, and strike off on their hap-hazard expedi-
tion. The old hunters of our party shoc^ their
heads, and our half-breed, Beatte, predicted all
kinds <^ trouble to them ; my only hc^ was,
that they would soon meet with perplexities
enough to cool the impetuosity of the young
Count, and induce him to rejoin us. With this
idea we travelled slowly, and made a consider-
able halt at noon. After resuming our mardi,
we came in sight of the Arkansas. It presented
a broad and rapid stream, bordered by a beach
of fine sand, overgrown with willows and cotton-
wood trees. Beyond the river, the eye wandered
over a beautiM champaign country, of flowery
plaiiis and sloping inlands, diversified by groves
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88 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
and clumps of trees, and long screens of wood-
land ; the whole wearing the aspect of complete,
and even ornamental cultivation, instead of na- *
tive wildness. Not far from the river, on an
open eminence, we passed through the recently
deserted camping-place of an Osage war-party.
The frames of the tents or wigwams remained,
consisting of poles bent into an arch, with each
end stuck into the ground : these are intertwined
with twigs and branches, and covered with bark
and skins. Those experienced in Indian lore,
can ascertain the tribe, and whether on a hunting
or a warlike expedition, by the shape and dispo-
sition of the wigwams. Beatte pointed out to us,
in the present skeleton camp, the wigwam in
which the chiefs had held their consultations
round the council-fire; and an open area, well
trampled down, on which the grand war-dance
had been performed.
Pursuing our journey, as we were passing
through a forest, we were met by a forlorn, half-
famished dog, who came rambling along the trail,
with inflamed eyes and bewildered look. Though
nearly trampled upon J)y the foremost rangers,
he took notice of no one, but rambled heedlessly
among the horses. The cry of "mad dog" was
immediately raised, and one of the rangers lev-
elled his rifle, but was stayed by the ever-ready
humanity of the Commissioner. " He is blind ! "
said he. " IX is the dog of some poor Indian,
following his master by the scent. It would be
a shame to kill so faiths an animal." The
ranger shouldered his rifle, the dog blundered
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES, 59
blindly through the cavalcade unhurt, and keep-
ing his nose to the ground, continued his course
along the trail, affording a rare instance of a dog
surviving a bad name.
About three o'clock, we came to a recent
camping-place of the company of rangers : the
brands of one of their fires were still smoking;
80 that, according to the opinion of Beatte, they
could not have passed on above a day previously.
As there was a fine stream of water dose by,
and plenty of pea-vines for the horses, we en-
camped here for the night
We had not been here long, when we heard a
halloo from a distance, and beheld the young
Count and his party advancing through the for-
est. We welcomed them to the camp with heart-
felt satisfitction ; for their departure upon so haz-
ardous an expedition had caused us great unea-
siness. A short experiment had convinced them
of the toil and difficulty of inexperienced travel-
lers like themselves making their way through
the wilderness with such a train of horses, and
such slender attendance. Fortunately, they deter-
mined to rejoin us before nightfall ; one night's
camping out might have cost them their horses.
The Count had prevailed updn his prot^g^ and
esquire, the young Osage, to continue with him,
and still calculated upon achieving great exploits
with his assistance, on the buffalo prairies.
d by Google
CHAPTER Vn.
01
VSWS or THK KANOIftS. — THB COUNT AMD HIS INDIAH SQUIBB. — BAIS
IN THE WOODS. — WOODLAND SOENB. — OSAGE YILLAGE. — OSAGE VIS-
IT0B8 AT OUB XTBNINO CAMP.
N the morning early, (Oc^. 12,) the two
Greeks who had been sent express by
the commander of Fort Gibson, to stop
the company of rangers, arrived at our encamp-
ment on their return. They had left the company
encamped about fifty miles distant, in a fine place
on the Arkansas, abounding in game, where they
intended to await our arrival This news spread
animation throughout our party, and we set out
on our march, at sunrise, with renewed spirit.
In mounting our ste^, the young Osage at-
tempted to throw a blanket upon his wild horse.
The fine, sensitive animal took fright, reared and
recoiled. The attitudes of the wild horse and
the almost naked savage would have formed
studies for a painter or a statuary.
I often pleased myself in the course of our
march, with noticing the appearance of the young
Count and his newly enlisted follower, as they
rode before me. Never was preux chevalier bet-
er suited with an esquire. The Count was well
nounted, and, as I have before observed, was a
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES, 41
bold and graceful rider. He was fond, too, of
caracoling his lK»»e, and dashing about in the
buoyancy of youthful spirits. His dress was a
gay Indian hunting-frock of dressed deer-skin,
setting weU to the shape, dyed oi a beautiful
purple, and fanci^Uy embroidered with silks of
various colors ; as if it had been the work of some
Indian beauty, to decorate a favorite chief. With
this he wore leathern pantaloons and moccasons,
a foraging-cap, and a double-barrelled gun slung
by a bandoleer athwart his back : so that he was
quite a [ncturesque figure as he managed grace-
fully his spirited steed.
The young Osage would ride close behind him
on his wild and beautifully mottled horse, which
was decorated with crimson tufts of hair. He
rode, with his finely shaped head and bust naked ;
his blanket being girt round his waist. He car-
ried his rifie in one hand, and managed his hor^
with the other, and seemed ready to dash off at
a moment's warning, with his youthful leader,
on any madcap foray or scamper. The County
with the sanguine anticipations of youth, prom-
ised himsdf many hardy adventures and exploits
in company with his youthful " brave," when we
should get among the buffaloes, in the Pawnee
hunting-grounds.
After riding some distance, we crossed a nar-
row, deep stream, upon a solid bridge, the remains
of an old beaver dam ; the industrious community
whidi had constructed it had all been destroyed.
Above us, a streaming flight of wild geese, high
in air, and making a vociferous noise, gave note
of the waning year.
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42 CRAYON MISJCELLANr,
About half-past ten o'clock we made a halt in
a forest, where there was abundance of the pea^
vine. Here we turned the horses loose to graze.
A fire was made, water procured fix>m an adja-
cent spring, and in a short time our little French-
man, Tonish, had a pot of coffee prepared for our
refreshment. While partaking of it, we were
joined by an old Osage, one of a small hunting
party who had recently passed this way. He
was in search of his horse, which had wandered
away, or been stolen. Our half-breed, Beatte,
made a wry face on hearing of Osage hunters in
this direction. " Until we pass those hunters,"
said he, "we shall see no buffaloes. They
frighten away everything like a prairie on fire."
The morning repast being over, the party
amused themselves in various ways. Some shot
with their rifles at a mark, others lay asleep half
buried in the deep bed of foliage, with their heads
resting on their saddles ; others gossiped round
the fire at the foot of a tree, which sent up
wreaths of blue smoke among the branches. The
horses banqueted luxuriously on the pea-vines,
and some lay down and rolled amongst them.
We were overshadowed by lofty trees, with
straight, smooth trunks, like stately columns ; and
as the glancing rays of the sun shone through the
transparent leaves, tinted with the many-colored
hues of autumn, I was reminded of the effect of
sunshine among the stained windows and duster-
ing columns of a Gothic cathedral. Indeed there
is a grandeur and solemnity in our spacious for-
ests of the West^ that awaken in me the same
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A TOUR ON THE PBAJRIE8, 4&
feeling I have experienced in those vast and yen-,
erable piles, and the sound of the wind sweep-
ing through them supplies occasionally the deep
breathings of the organ.
About noon the bugle sounded to horse, and
we were again on the march, hoping to arriye at
the encampment of the rangers before night ; as
the old Osage had assured us it was not above
ten or twelve miles distant In our course through
a forest, we passed by a lonely pool, covered with
the most magnificent water-lilies I had ever be-
held; among which swam several wood-ducks,
one of the most beautiful of water-fowl, remarka-
ble for the gracefulness and brilliancy of its plu-
mage.
After proceeding some distance farther, we
came down upon the banks of the Arkansas, at
a place where tracks of numerous horses, all en-
tering the water, showed where a party of Osage
hunters had recently crossed the river on their
way to the buflfalo range. After letting our
horses drink in the river, we continued along its
bank for a space, and then across prairies, where
we saw a distant smoke, which we hoped might
proceed from the encampment of the rangers.
Following what we supposed to be their trail, we
came to a meadow in which were a number of
horses grazing: they were not, however, the horses
of the troop. A little farther on, we reached a
straggling Osage village, on the banks of the
Arkansas. Our arrival created quite a sensation.
A number of old men came forward and shook
hands with us all severally ; while the women
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44 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
and children huddled together in groups, staring
at us wildly, chattering and laughing among
themselves. We found that all the young men
of the village had departed on a hunting expedi-
tion, leaving the women and children and old men
behirld. Here the Commissioner made a speech
fix)m on horseback ; informing his hearers of the
purport of his mission, to promote a general peace
among the tribes of the West, and urging them
to lay aside all warlike and bloodthirsty notions,
and not to make any wanton attacks upon the
Pawnees. This speech being interpreted by
Beatte, seemed to have a most pacifying effect
upon the multitude, who promised faithfully that,
as far as in them lay, the peace should not be
disturbed; and indeed their age and sex gave
some reason to trust that they would keep their
word.
Still hoping to reach the camp of the rangers
before nightfall, we pushed on until twilight, when
we were obliged to halt on the borders of a ra-
vine. The rangers bivouacked under trees, at the
bottom of the dell, while we pitched our tent on
a rocky knoll near a running stream. The night
came on dark and overcast, with flying clouds,
and much appearance of rain. The fires of the
rangers burnt brightly in the dell, and threw
strong masses of light upon the robber-looking
groups that were cooking, eating, and drinking
around them. To add to the wildness of the
scene, several Osage Indians, visitors from the
village we had passed, were mingled among the
men. Three of them came and seated themselves
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 4ft
by our fire. They watched everything that was
^ing on ronnd them in silence, and looked like
figures of monumental hronze. We gave them
food, and, what they most relished, coffee ; for the
Indians partake in the universal fondness for
this beverage, which pervades the West. When
they had made their supper, they stretched thek-
selves side by side before the fire, and began a
low nasal chant, druifmiing with their hands upon
their breasts by way of accompaniment. Their
chant seemed to consist of regular staves, every
one terminating, not in a melodious cadence, but
in the abrupt inteijection huh ! uttered almost like
a hiccup. This chant, we were told by our in-
terpreter, Beatte, related to ourselves, our appear-
ance, our treatment of them, and all that they
knew of our plans. In one part they spoke of
the young Count, whose animated character and
eagerness for Indian enterprise had struck their
fimcy, and they indulged in some waggery about
him and the young Indian beauties, that produced
great merriment among our half-breeds. .
This mode of improvising is common through-
out the savage tribes ; and in this way, with a
few simple inflections of the voice, they. chant all
iheir exploits in war and hunting, and occasion-
ally indulge in a vein of comic humor and dry
satire, to which the Indians appear to me much
more prone than is generally imagined.
In fact, tlie Indians that I have had an oppor-
tunity of seeing in real life are quite different
fi:om those described in poetry. They are by no
means the stoics that they are represented ; taci-
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46 .CRAYON MISCELLANY.
turn, unbending, without a tear or a smile. Taci-
turn they are, it is true, when in company with
white men, whose good-will they distrust, and
whose language they do not understand ; but the
white man is equally taciturn under like circum-
stances. When the Indians are among them-
selves, however, there cannot be greater gossips.
Half their time is taken up in talking over their
adventures in war and hunting, and in telling
whimsical stories. They are great mimics and
buffoons, also, and entertain themselves exces-
sively at the expense of the whites with 'whom
they have associated, and who have supposed
them impressed with profound respect for their
grandeur and dignity. They are curious observ-
ers, noting everything in silence, but with a keen
and watchful eye; occasionally exchanging a
glance or a grunt with each other, when anything
particularly strikes them ; but reserving all com-
ments until they are alone. Then it is that they
give full scope to criticism, satire, mimicry, and
mirth.
In the course of my journey along the frontier
I have had repeated opportunities of noticing
their excitability and boisterous merriment at
their games ; and have occasionally noticed a
group of Osages sitting round a fire until a late
hour of the night, engaged in the most animated
and lively conversation ; and at times making the
woods resound with peals of laughter. As to
teai^, they have them in abundance, both real
and affected ; at times they make a merit of them.
No one weeps more bitterly or profusely at the
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A TOUR ON TBE PRAIRIES. 4T
deatli of a relative or ipnend ; and they ha^
Btated times when they repair to howl and lament
at their graves. I have heard doleful wailings
at daybreak, in the neighboring Indiaja villageSi
made by some of the inhabitants^ who go out at
that hour into the fields to mourn and weep for
the dead: at such times, I am told, the tears
will stream down their cheeks in torrents.
As far as I can judge, the Indian of poetical '
fiction is, like the shepherd of pastoral romance,
a mere personification of imaginary attributes.
The nasal chant of our Osage guests gradually
died away ; they covered their heads with their
blankets and feU &st asleep, and in a little while
all was silent, excepting .the pattering of scattered
rain-drops upon our tent
In the morning our Indian visitors break£auited
with us, but the young Osage who was to act as
esquire to the Count in his knight-errantry on
the prairies, was nowhere to be found* His wild
horse, too, was missing, and, after many conject-
ures, we came to the conclusion that he had
taken <' Indian leave" of us in the night We
afterwards ascertained that he had been persuaded
so to do by the Osages we had recently met with ;
who had represented to him the perils that would
attend him in an expedition to the Pawnee hunt-
iug-grounds, where he might fall into the hands of
the implacable enemies of his tribe : and, what
was scarcely less to be apprehended, the annoyances
to which he would be subjected from the capricious
and overbearing conduct of the white men; who,
as I have witnessed in my own short experience,
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48 'CRAYON MISCELLANY.
are prone to treat the poor Indians as little better
than brute animals. Indeed, he had had a speci-
men of it himself in the narrow escape he made
from the infliction of " Lynch's law," by the hard-
winking worthy of the frontier, for the flagitious
crime of finding a stray horse.
The disappearance of the youth was generally
regretted by our party, for we had all taken a
great fancy to him from his handsome, frank, and
manly appearance, and the easy grace of his
deportment He was indeed a native-born gen-
tleman. By none, however, was he so much la-
mented as by the young Count, who thus sud-
denly found himself deprived of his esquire. I
regretted the departure of the Osage for his own
sake, for we should have cherished him through-
out the expedition, and I am convinced, from the
munificent spirit of his patron, he would have
returned to his tribe laden with wealth of beads
and trinkets and Indian blankets.
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CHAPTER Yin.
THB HOITKT OAMP.
I HE weather, which had been rainy in
the night, having held up, we resumed
our march at seven o'clock in the morn-
ing, in confident hope of soon arriving at the en-
campment of the rangers. We had not ridden
above three or four miles when we came to a
large tree which had recently been felled by an
axe, for the wild honey contained in the hollow
of its trunk, several broken fiakes of which still
remained. We now felt sure that the camp could
not be fer distant. About a couple of miles fiir-
ther some of the rangers set up a shout, and
pointed to a number of horses grazing in a woody
bottom. A few paces brought us to the brow of
an elevated ridge, whence we looked down upon
the encampment It was a wild bandit, or Robin
Hood, scene. In a beautiful open forest, trav-
ersed by a running stream, were booths of bark
and branches, and tents of blankets, — ^temporary
shelters fcom the recent rain, for the rangers
oommonly bivouac in the open air. There were
groups of rangers in every kind of imcouth garb
Some were cooking at large fires made at the
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50 CBATON MISCELLANY.
feet of trees ; some were stretching and dressing
deer-skins ; some were shooting at a mark, and
some lying about on the grass. Venison jerked,
and hung on frames, was drying over the embers
in one place; in another lay carcasses recently
brought in by the hunters. Stacks of rifles were
leaning against the trunks of the trees, and sad-
dles, bridles, and powder-horns hanging above
them, while the horses were grazing here and
there among the thickets.
Our arrival was greeted with acclamation.
The rangers crowded about their comrades to
inquire the news from the fort ; for our own part,
we were received in frank simple hunter^s style
by Captain Bean, the commander of the com-
pany ; a man about forty years of age, vigorous
and active. His life had been chiefly passed on
the frontier, occasionally in Indian warfare, so
that he was a thorough woodsman, and a first*
rate hunter. He was equipped in character ; in
leathern hunting-shirt and leggins, and a leathern
foraging-cap.
While we were conversing with the Captain, a
veteran huntsman s^proached, whose whole ap*
pearance struck me. He was of the middle size,
but tough and weather - proved ; a head partly
bald and garnished with loose iron-gray locks,
and a fine black eye, beaming with youthfril
spirit His dress was similar to that of the
Captain : a rifle-shirt and leggins of dressed deer-
skin, that had evidently seen service ; a ppwder-
hom was slung by his side, a hunting-knife stuck
in his belt, and in his hand was an ancient and
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A TOUR ON THE PBAUtlES. 51
trusty rifle, doubtless as dear to him as a bosom-
friend. He asked permission to go hmiting^
which was readily granted. " That 's old Ryan,**
said the Captidn, when he had gone ; ^ there 's
not a better hunter in the camp ; he 's sure to
bring in game."
In a little while our pack-horses were unloaded
and turned loose to revel among the pea-vines.
Our tent was pitched ; our fire made ; the half
of a deer had been sent to us from the Captain's
lodge j Beatte brought in a couple of wild tur-
keys ; the i^its were laden, and the camp-kettle
crammed with meat ; and, to crown our luxuries,
a basin filled with great flakes of delicious honey,
the ^ils of a plundered bee-tree, was given us
by one of the rangers.
Our little Frenchman, Tonish, was in an
ecstasy, and tnddng up his sleeves to the elbows,
set to work to make a display of his culinary
fikill, on whidi he prided himself almost as mudi
AS upon his hunting, his riding, and his warlike
piowess*
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CHAPTER IX.
A. BEB-H17ST.
||HE beautiful forest in which we were
encamped abounded in bee-trees ; . that
is to say, trees in the decayed trunks of
which wild bees had established their hives. .It
is surprising in what countless swarms the bees
have overspread the Far West within but a
moderate number of years. The Indians consider
them the harbinger of the white man, as the
buffalo is of the red man ; and say that, in pro-
portion as the bee advances, the Indian and
buffalo retire. We are always accustomed to
associate the hum of the bee-hive with the fiirm-
house and flower-garden, and to consider those
industrious little animals as connected with the
busy haunts of man, and I am told that ihe wild
bee is seldom to be met with at any great dis-
tance fix)m the fix)ntier. They have been the
heralds of civilization, steadfastly preceding it
as it advanced from the Atlantic borders, and
some of the ancient settlers of the West pretend
to give the very year when the honey-bee first
crossed the Mississippi. The Indians with sur-
piise found the mouldering trees of their forests
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 53
suddenly teeming with ambrosial sweets, and
nothing, I am told, can exceed tlie greedy relish
with which they banquet for the first time upon
this unbought luxury of the wilderness.
At present the honey-bee swarms in myriads,
in the noble groves and forests which skirt and
intersect the prairies, and extend along the allu*
vial bottoms of the rivers. It seems to me as if
these beautifiil regions answer literally to the
description of the land of promise, ^ a land flowing
with milk and honey ; " for the rich pasturiage of
the prairies is calculated to sustain herds of cattle
as countless as the sands upon the sea -shore,
while the flowers with which they are enamelled
render them a very paradise for the nectar-seek-
ing bee.
We had not been long in the camp when a
party set out in quest of a bee-tree ; and, being
curious to witness the sport, I gladly accepted an
invitation to accompany them. The party was
headed by a veteran bee-hunter, a tall lank feUow
in homespun garb that hung loosely about his
limbs, and a straw hat shaped not unlike a bee-
hive; a comrade, equally uncouth in garb, and
without a hat, straddled along at his heels, with
a long rifle on his shoulder. To these succeeded
half a dozen others, some with axes and some
with rifles, for no one stirs far fix)m the camp
without his firearms, so as to be ready either for
wild deer or wild Indian.
After proceeding some distance, we came to an
open gladH on the skirts of the forest. Here our
leader halted, and then advanced quietly to a low
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K4 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
bash, on the top of which I perceived a piece of
honey-comb. This I found was the bait or Inre
for the wild bees. Several were humming about
it, and diving into its cells. When they had
laden themselves with honey, they would rise into
the air, and dart off in a straight line, ahnost with
the velocity of a bullet The hunters watched
attentively the course they took, and then set off
in the same direction, stumbling along over
twisted roots and &l]en trees, with their eyes
turned up to the sky. In this way they traced
Ihe honey-laden bees to their hive, in the hollow
trunk of a blasted oak, where, after buzzing
about for a moment, they entered a hole about
sixty feet fix)m the ground.
Two of the bee-hunters now plied their axes
vigorously at the foot of the tree, to level it with
the ground. The mere spectators and amateurs,
in the meantime, drew off to a cautious distance,
to be out of the way of the &lling of the tree
and the vengeance of its inmates. The jarring
blows of the axe seemed to have no effect in
alarming or disturbing this most industrious com-
munity. They continued to ply at their usual
occupations, some arriving full fi:^ighted into port,
others sallying forth on new expeditions, like so
many merdiantmen in a money-making metropolis,
little suspicious of impending bankruptcy and
downfaU. Even a loud crack which announced
the disrupture of the trunk, failed to divert their
attention fix>m the intense pursuit of gain; at
length down came the tree with a tremendous
onish, bursting open from end to end, and display-
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A TOUR ON TBE PRAIRIES. 55
ing all the hoarded treasures of the oommon-
wealth.
One oi the hunters immediately ran up with
a wisp of lighted hajr as a defence against the
bees. The latter, however, made no attack and
eought no revenge ; they seemed stupefied by the
catastrophe and unsuspicious of its cause, and
remained crawling and buzzing about the ruins
without offering us. any molestation. Every one
of the party now fell to, with spoon and hunting-
knife, to scoop out the flakes of honey-comb with
which the hollow trunk was stored. Some of
them were of old date and a deep brown color,
others were beautifully white, and the honey in
^eir cells was almost limpid. Such of the combs
as were entire were placed in camp-kettles to be
tionveyed to the encampment ; those which had
been shivered in the &11 were devoured upon the
spot Every stark bee-hunter w^ to be seen
with a ridi morsel in his hand, dripping about
his fingers, and disappearing as rapidly as a cream
tart before the holiday appetite of a schoolboy.
Nor was it the bee-hunters alone that profited
by the downfidl of this industrious community :
as if the bees would carry through the similitude
of Uieir habits with those of laborious and gainful
man, I beheld numbers fixxn rival hives, arriving
on eager wing, to enrich themselves with the ruins
of their neighbors. These busied themselves as
eagerly and cheerfully as so many wreckers on
an Indiaman that has been driven on shore ;
plunging into the cells of the broken honey-combs,
banqueting greedily on the spoil, and then wing-
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56 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
ing their way full freighted to their homes. As
to the poor proprietors of the ruin, they seemed
to have no heart to do anything, not even to taste
the nectar that flowed around them ; but crawled
backwards and forwards, in vacant desolation, as
I have seen a poor fellow with his hands in his
pockets, whistling vacantly and despondingly about
the ruins of his house that had been burnt.
It is difficult to describe the bewilderment and
confusion of the bees of the bankrupt hive who
had been absent at the time of the catastrophe,
and who arrived from time to time, with full
cargoes from abroad. At first they wheeled
about in the air, in the place where the fallen
tree had once reared its head, astonished at find-
ing it all a vacuum. At length, as if compre-
hending their disaster, they settled down in clus-
ters on a dry branch pf a neighboring tree,
whence they seemed to contemplate the prostrate
ruin, and to buzz forth dolefrd lamentations over
the downfall of their republic It was a scene
on which the ^^ melancholy Jacques " might have
moralized by the hour.
We now abandoned the place, leaving much
honey in \hQ hollow of the tree. " It will all be
cleared off by varmint," said one of the rangers.
"What vermin?" asked L "Oh, bears, and
skunks, and racoons, and 'possums. The bears
is the knowingest varmint for finding out a bee-
tree in the world. They'll gnaw for days to-
gether at the trunk till they make a hole big
enough to get in their paws, and then they'U
haul out honey, bees and all."
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CHAPTER X.
Amantatm nr mi oamp. — oowsuuAnoNS — Hunnu' fau axd
riAsnzro. — iTiRmo sosms. — oaxp milodt.— xbi faxi or am
AMAnUB OWL.
IN retaming to the camp, we found it a
scene of the greatest hilarity. Some
of the rangers were shooting at a mark,
others were leaping, wrestling, and playing at
prison-bars. They were mostly yoimg men, on
their first expedition, in high health and vigor,
and buoyant with anticipations ; and I can con-
ceive nothing more likely to set the youthful
blood into a flow than a wild wood-life of the
kind, and the range of a magnificent wilderness,
abounding with game, and fruitful of adventure.
We send our youth abroad to grow luxurious and
effeminate in Europe; it appears to me that a
previous tour on the prairies would be more likely
to produce that manliness, simplicity, and self-
dependence most in unison with our political in-
stitutions.
While the young men were engaged in these
boisterous amusements, a graver set, composed
of the Captain, the Doctor, and other sages and
Jeaders of the camp, were seated or stretched out
on the grass, round a firontier map, holding a con-
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•
58 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
Bultation about our position, and the course we
were to pursue.
Our plan was to cross the Arkansas just above
where the Bed Fork falls into it, then to keep
westerly, until we should pass through a grand
belt of open forest, called the Gross Timber,
which ranges nearly north and south from the
Arkansas to Eed River; after which we were
to keep a southerly course towards the latter
river.
Our half-breed, Beatte, being an experienced
Osage hunter, was called into the consultation.
** Have you ever hunted in this direction ? ** said
the Captain. ^ Yes," was the laconic reply.
" Perhaps, then, you can tell us in whidi
dii*ection lies the Bed Fork ? "
" If you keep along yonder, by the edge of the
prairie, you will come to a bald hill, with a pile
of stones upon it."
<' I have noticed that hill as I was hunting,"
said the Captain.
" Well ! those stones were set up by the
Osages as a landmark : from that spot you may
have a sight of the Bed Foi^"
^' In tiiat case," cried the Captain, ^ we shall
reach the Bed Fork to-morrow ; then cross the
Arkansas above it, into the Pawnee country,
and then in two days we shall crack buffalo
bones I "
The idea of arriving at the adventurous hunt-
ing-grounds of the Pawnees, and of coming upon
the traces of the buffaloes, made every eye
^arkle with animation. Our further conyersa'
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES, 59
tion was interrupted by the sharp report of a
rifle at no great distance from the camp.
** That 's old Ryan's rifle," exclaimed the Cap^
tain ; " there 's a buck down, I 'U warrant ! " nor
was he mistaken; for, before. long, the veteran
made his appearance, calling upon one of the
younger rangers to return with him, and* aid in
bringing home the carcass.
The surrounding country, in &ct, abounded
with game, so that the camp was overstocked
with provisions, and, as no less than twenty bee-
trees had been cut down in the vicinity, every
one revelled in luxury. With the wastefiil prod-
igality of hunters, there was a continual feast-
ing, and scarce any one put by provision for the
morrow. The cooking was conducted in hunters'
style : the meat was stuck upon tapering spits of
d<^;wood, which were thrust perpendicularly into
the ground, so as to sustain the joint before the
fire, where it was roasted or broiled with all its
juices retained in it in a manner that would have
tickled the palate of the most experienced gour*
mand. As much could not be said in &vor of
the bread. It was little more than a paste made
of flour and water, and fried like fritters, in lard ;
though some adopted a ruder style, twisting it
round the ends of sticks, and thus roasting it
before the fire. In either way, I have foimd it
extremely palatable on the prairies. No one
knows ^% true relish of food until he has a
hunter^s appetite.
Before sunset, we were summoned by little
Traush to a sumptuous repast. Blankets had
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60 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
been spread oh the ground near to the fire, upon
which we took our seats. A large dish, or bowl,
made from the root of a maple-tree, and which '
we had purchased at the Indian village, was
placed on the ground before us, and into it were
emptied the contents of one of the camp-kettles,
consistfog of a wild turkey hashed, together with
slices of bacon and lumps of dough. Beside it
was placed another bowl of similar ware, con*
taining an ample supply of fritters. Afler we
had discussed the hash, two wooden spits, on
which the ribs of a fat buck were broiling before
the fire, were removed and planted in the ground
before us, with a triumphant air, by little Tonish.
Having no dishes, we had to proceed in hunters'
style, cutting off strips and slices with our hunt-
ing-knives, and dipping them in salt and pepper.
To do justice to Tonish's cookery, however, and
to the keen sauce of the prairies, never have I
tasted venison so delicious. With all this, our
beverage was coffee, boiled in a camp-kettle,
sweetened with brown sugar, and drunk out of
tin cups : and such was the style of our banquet-
ing throughout this expedition, whenever provi-
sions were plenty, and as long as flour and coffee
and sugar held out. ^
As the twilight thickened into night, the sen*
tinels were marched forth to then* stations around
the camp : an indispensable precaution in a coun-
try infested by Indians. The encampment now
presented a picturesque appearance. Camp-fires
were blazing and smouldering here and there
among the trees, with groups of rangers round
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 61
tbem ; some seated or lying on the ground, others
Btanding in the ruddy glare of the flames, or in
shadowy relief. At some of the fires there was
much boisterous mirth, where peals of laughter
were mingled with loud ribald jokes and un-
couth exclamations ; for the troop was evidently
a raw, undisciplined band, levied among the wild
youngsters of the frontier, who had enlisted,
some for the sake of roving adventure, and some
for the purpose of getting a knowledge of the
country. Many of them were the neighbors of
their officers, and accustomed to regard them with
the familiarity of equals and companions. None
of them had any idea of the restraint and deco-
rum of a camp, or ambition to acquire a name
for exactness in a profession in which they had
no intention of continuing.
While this boisterous merriment prevailed at
some of the fires, there suddenly rose a strain of
nasal melody from another, at which a choir of
** vocalists " were uniting their voices in a most
lugubrious psalm-tune. This was led by one of
the lieutenants ; a tall, spare man, who we were
informed had officiated as schoolmaster, singing-
master, and occasionally as Methodist preacher,
in one of the villages of the frontier. The chant
rose solemnly and sadly in the night air, and re-
minded me of the description of similar canti-
cles in the camps of the Covenanters ; and, in-
deed, the strange medley of figures and &ces and
uncouth garbs congregated together in our troop
would not have disgraced the banners of Praise-
God Barebone.
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68 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
In one of the intervals of this nasal psalmody,
an amateur owl, as if in competition, began h^
dreary hooting. Immediately there was a cry
throughout the camp of " Charley's owl I Char-
ley's owl ! " It seems this " obscure bird " had
visited the camp every night, and had been fired
at by one of the sentinels, a half-witted lad^
named Charley; who, on being called up for
firing when on duty, excused himself by saying,
that he understood that owls made uncommonly
good soup.
One of the young rangers mimicked the cry
of this bird of wisdom, who, with a simplicity
little consonant with his character, came hovering
within sight, and alighted on the naked brandi
of a tree lit up by the blaze of our fire. The
young Count immediately seized his fowling-
piece, took fatal aim, and in a twinkling the poor
bird of ill omen came fluttering to the ground.
Charley was now called upon to make and eat
his dish of owl-soup, but declined, as he had not
shot the bird.
In the course of the evening I paid a visit
to the Captain's fire. It was composed of huge
trunks of trees, and of sufficient magnitude to
roast a bufialo whole. Here were a number of
the prime hunters and leaders of the camp, some
sitting, some standing, and others lying on skins
or blankets before the fire, telling old frontier
stories about hunting and Indian war&re.
As the night advanced, we perceived above
the trees, to the west, a ruddy glow flushing up
the sky.
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 63
''That must be a prairie set on fire by the
Osage hunters," said the Captain.
** It is at the Red Fork," said Beatte, regard-
ing the sky. <' It seems but three miles distant,
yet it perhaps is twenty."
About half-past eight o'clock, a beautiful pale
light gradually sprang up in the east, a precursor
of the rising moon. Drawing off from the Cap-
tain's lodge, I now prepared for the night's re-
pose. I had determined to abandon the shelter
of the tent, and henceforth to bivouac like the
rangers. A bear-skin spread at the foot of a tree
was my bed, with a pair of saddle-bags for a pil-
low. Wrapping myself in blankets, I stretched
myself on this hunter's couch, and soon fell into a
sound and sweet sleep, from which I did not awake
until the bugle sounded at daybreak.
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CHAPTER XL
missed,
night's
place.
BBXAKma OP or ths bnoampment. — pionraKSQUB maboh. •
OAUP-SGBHIS. — TEIDMPB OP A TOUNO UUHTIB. — JUt SUOOISS OP 0U»
HUKTBBS. — POUL IfUBDIB OP A POLROAT.
October 14.
I T the signal-note oi the bngle, the senti-
nels and patrols mardied in &om their
stations around the camp and were dis-
The rangers were roused from their
repose, and soon a bustling scene took
While some cut wood, made fires, and
prepared the morning's meal, others struck their
foul-weather shelters of blankiets, and made every
preparation for departure; vhile others dashed
about, through brush and brake, catching the
horses and leading or driving them into camp.
During all this bustle the forest rang with
whoops, and shouts, and peals of laughter ; when
all had breakfasted, packed up their effects and
camp-equipage, and loaded the pack-horses, the
bugle sounded to saddle and mount 67 eight
o'clock the whole troop set off in a long straggling
line, with whoop and halloo, intermingled with
many an oath at the loitering pack-horses, and in
a little while the forest, which for several days had
been the scene of such unwonted bustle and up-
roar, relapsed into its primeval solitude and silence.
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A TOUR ON TBE PRAIRIES 6S
It was a bright sanny morning, with a pure
transparent atmosphere that seemed to bathe the
very heart with gladness. Our march continued
parallel to the Arkansas, through a rich and varied
country ; — sometimes we had to break our way
through alluvial bottoms matted with redundant
vegetation, where the gigantic trees were en-
tangled with grape-vines, hanging like cordage
from their branches ; sometimes we coasted along
sluggish brooks, whose feebly trickling current
just served to link together a succession of glassy
pools, imbedded like mirrors in the quiet bosom
of the forest, reflecting its autumnal foliage and
patches of the dear blue sky. Sometimes we
scrambled up broken and ix>cky hills, from the
summits of which we had wide views stretchihg
on one side over distant prairies diversified by
groves and forests, and on the other ranging
along a line of blue and shadowy hills beyond
the waters of the Arkansas.
The appearance of our troop was suited to
the country; stretching along in a line of up-
wards of half a mile in length, winding among
brakes and bushes, and up and down the defiles
of the hills, — the men in every kind of uncouth
garb, with long rifles on their shoulders, and
mounted on horses of every color. The pack-
horses, too, would incessantly wander from the
line of march, to crop the surrounding herbage,
and were banged and beaten back by Tonish and
his. half-breed compeers, with volleys of mongrel
oaths. Every now and then the notes of the bu-^
gle, Atom the head of the column, would echo
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66 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
through the woodlands and along the hollow glens,
summoning up stragglers, and announcing the
line of march. The whole scene reminded me
of the description given of hands of buccaneers
penetrating the wilds of South America, on their
plundering expeditions against the Spanish settle-
ments.
At one time we passed through a luxuriant
bottom of meadow bordered by thickets, where
the tall grass was pressed down into numerous
^deer-beds," where those animals had couched
the preceding night Some oak-trees also bore
signs of having been clambered bj bears, in quest
of acorns, the marks of their daws being visible
in the bark.
As we opened a glade of this sheltered mead-
ow, we beheld several deer bounding away in
wild affright, until, having gained some distance,
they would stop and gaze back, with the curiosity
common to this animal, at the strange intruders
into their solitudes. There was immediately a
sharp report of rifles in every direction, from the
young huntsmen of the troop, but they were too
eager to aim surely, and the deer, unharmed,
bounded away into Uie depths of the forest.
In the course of our march we struck the Ar-
kansas, but found ourselves still below the Bed
Fork, and, as the river made deep bends, we again
left its banks and continued through the woods
until nearly eight o'clock, when we encamped in
a beautiful basin bordered by a fine stream, and
shaded by clumps of lofty oais.
The horses were now hobbled, that is to say,
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 67
their fore-legs were fettered with cords or leathern
straps, so as to impede their movements, and pre-
vent their wandering from the camp. They were
then turned loose to graze. A number of ran-
gers, prime hunters, started qff in different di-
rections in search of game. There was no
whooping nor laughing about the camp as in the
morning; all were either busy about the fires
preparing the evening^s repast^ or reposing upon
the grass. Shots were soon heard in various di-
rections. After a time a huntsman rode into the
camp, with the carcass of a fine buck hanging
across his horse. Shortly afterwards came in a
couple of stripling hunters on foot^ one of whom
bore on his shoulders the body of a doe. He
was evidently proud of his spoil, being probably
one of his first achievements, though he and his
companion were much bantered by their comrades,
as young beginners who hunted in partnership.
Just as the night set in, there was a great
shouting at one end of the camp, and immediately
afterwards a body of young rangers came parad-
ing round the various fires, bearing one of their
comrades in triumph on their shoulders. He had
shot an elk for the first time in his life, and it was
the first animal of the kind that had been killed
on this expedition. The young huntsman, whose
name was M'Lellan, was the hero of the camp
for the night, and was the << father of the feast"
into the bargain ; for portions of his elk were
seen roasting at every fire.
The other hunters returned without success.
The Captain had observed the tracks of a buffido^
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68 CRATON MiaCELLANT.
which must have passed within a few days, and
had tracked a bear for some distance until the
' footprints had disappeared. He had seen an elk
too, on the banks of the Arkansas, which walked
out on a sand - bar of the river, but before he
could steal round through the bushes to get a
shot, it had reentered the woods.
Our own hunter, Beatte, returned silent and
sulkj, from an unsuccessful hunt As yet he had
brought us in nothing, and we had depended for
our supplies of venison upon the Captain's mess.
Beatte was evidently mortified, for he looked
down with contempt upon the rangers, as raw
and inexperienced woodsmen, but little skilled
in hunting ; — they, on the other hand, regarded
Beatte with no very complacent eye, as one of an
evil breed, and always spoke of 1dm as " the In-
dian."
Our little Frenchman Tonish, also, by his in*
cessant boasting and chattering, and gasconading,
in his balderdashed dialect^ had drawn upon him-
self the ridicule of many of the wags of the
troop, who amused themselves at his expense in
a kind of raillery by no means remarkable for its
delicacy ; but the little rai^et was so completely
fortified by vanity and self-conceit, that he was
invulnerable to every joke. I must confess, how-
ever, that I felt a little mortified at the sorry fig-
ure our retainers were making among these moss-
troopers of the frontier. Even our very equip-
ments came in for a share of unpopularity, and I
heard many sneers at the double-barrelled guns
with which we were provided against sniaUer
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A TOUR ON TEE PRAJRIEa. 6d
game ; the lads of the West holding "^ shot-gans,"
as they call them, in great contempt, thinking
grouse, partridges, and even wild turkeys as be-
neath their serious attention, and the rifle the only
firearm worthy of a hunter.
I was awakened before daybreak the next
morning by the mournful howling of a wolf, who
was skulking about the purlieus of the camp, at-
tracted by the scent of venison. Scarcely had the
first gray streak of dawn appeared, when a
youngster at one of the distant lodges, shaking
off his sleep, crowed in imitation of a cock, with
a loud clear note and prolonged cadence, that
would have done credit to the most veteran chan-
ticleer. He was immediately answered from
another quarter, as if from a rival rooster. The
chant was echoed from lodge to lodge, and fol-
lowed by the cackling of hens, quacking of ducks,
gabbling of turkeys, and grunting of swine, until
we seemed to have been transported into the
midst of a farm-yard, with all its inmates in full
concert around us.
After riding a short distance this morning, we
came upon a well-worn Indian track, and follow-
ing it, scrambled to the summit of a hill, whence
we had a wide prospect over a country diversi-
fied by rocky ridges and waving lines of upland,
and enriched by groves and clumps of trees of va-
ried tuft and foliage. At a distance to the west,
to our great satis&ction, we beheld the Red Fork
xolling its ruddy current to the Arkansas, and
found that we were above the point of junction.
We now descended and pushed forward, with
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70 CJHATOK MISCELLANY.
much difficulty, through the rich alluvial bottom
that borders the Arkansas. Here the trees were
interwoven with grape-vines, forming a kind of
cordage, from trunk to trunk and limb to limb ;
there was a thick undergrowth, also, of bush and
bramble, and such an abundance of hops, fit for
gathering, that it was difficult for our horses to
force their way through.
The soil was imprinted in many places with
the tracks of deer, and the daws of bears were
to be traced on various trees. Every one was on
the look-out in the hope of starting some game,
when suddenly there was a bustle and a clamor in
a distant part of the line. A bear I a bear ! was
the cry. We all pressed forward to be present
at the sport, when to my infinite though whimsi-
cal chagrin I found it to be our two worthies,
Beatte and Tonish, perpetrating a foul murder
on a polecat, or skunk! The animal had en-
sconced itself beneath the trunk of a fallen tree,
whence it kept up a vigorous defence in its pecu-
liar style, until the surrounding forest was in a
high state of fragrance.
Gibes and jokes now broke out on all sides at
the expense of the Indian hunter, and he was
advised to wear the scalp of the skunk as the
only trophy of his prowess. When they found,
however, that he and Tonish were alwolutely
bent upon bearing off the carcass as a peculiar
dainty, there was a universal expression of dis-
gust ; and they were regarded as litUe better than
cannibals.
Mortified at this ignominious debut of our two
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIEB. 71
hunters, I insisted upon their abandoning their
prize and resuming their march. Beatte com-
plied with a dogged, discontented air, and lagged
behind muttering to himself. Tonish, however,
with his usual buoyancy, consoled himself by
vociferous eulogies on the richness and delicacy
of a roasted polecat, which he swore was consid-
ered the daintiest of dishes by all experienced
Indian gourmands. Jt was vnth difficulty I could
silence his loquacity by repeated and peremptory
commands. A Frenchman's vivacity, however,
if repressed in one way, will break out in another,
and Tonish now eased off his spleen by bestowing
volleys of oaths and dry blows on the pack-
horses. I was likely to be no gainer in the end,
by my opposition to the humors of these varlets,
for after a time Beatte, who had lagged behind,
rode up to the head of the line to resume his sta-
tion as a guide, and I had the vexation to see the
carcass of his prize, stripped of its skin, and look-
ing like a &t sucking-pig, dangling behind his
saddle. I made a solemn vow, however, in secret,
that our fire should not be disgraced by the cook-
ing of that polecat.
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CHAPTER Xn.
tm aEOssnra ov ths abkaksas
JE had now arrived at the river, aboat a
quarter of a mile above the junction of
the Red Fork; but the banks were
steep and crumbling, and the current was deep
and rapid. It was impossible, therefore, to cross
at this place ; and we resumed our painful course
through the forest, dispatching Beatte ahead, in
search of a fording place. We had proceeded
about a mile further, when he rejoined us, bring*
ing intelligence of a place hard by, where the
river, for a great part of its breadth, was rendered
fordable bj sand-bars, and the remainder might
easily be swum by the horses.
Here, then, we made a halt Some of the
rangers set to work vigorously with their axes,
felling trees on the edge of the river, wherewith
to form rafts for the transportation of their bag-
gage and camp equipage. Others patrolled the
banks of the river farther up, in hopes of finding a
better fording place ; being unwilling to risk their
horses in the deep channel.
It was now that our worthies, Beatte and Ton-
ish, had an opportunity of displaying their Indian
adroitness and resource. At the Osage village
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 78
yrhidi we had passed a day or two before, they
had procured a dry bu£^lo skin. This was now
produced ; cords were passed through a number
of small eyelet-holes with which it was bordered,
and it was drawn up, until it formed a kind of
deep trough. Sticks were then placed athwart
it on the inside, to keep it in shape ; our camp
equipage and a part of our baggage were placed
within, and the singular bark was carried down
the bank and set afloat. A cord was attached
to the prow, which Beatte took between his teeth,
and throwing himself into the water, went ahead,
towing the bark after him ; while Tonish followed
behind, to keep it steady and to propel it. Part
of the way they had foothold, and were enabled
to wade, but in the main current they were
obliged to swim. The whole way, they whooped
and yelled in the Indian style, until they landed
safely on the opposite shore.
The Commissioner and myself were so well
j^eased with this Indian mode of ferriage, that
we determined to trust ourselves in the buffalo
hide. Our companions, the Count and Mr. L.,
bad proceeded with the horses, along the river*
bank, in search of a ford which some of the rang,
ers had discovered, about a mile and a half dis-
tant. While w.e were waiting for the return of
our ferryman, I happened to cast my eyes upon a
heap of luggage under a bush, and descried the
sleek carcass of the polecat, snugly trussed up,
and ready for roasting before the evening fire. I
could not resist the temptation to plump it into
the, river, when it sunk to the bottom like a lump
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^
74 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
of lead ; and thus our lodge was relieved from
the bad odor which this savory viand had threat-
ened to bring upon it
Our men having recrossed with their cockle^
shell bark, it was drawn on shore, half filled with
saddles, saddlebags, and other luggage, amounting
to a hundred weight ; and being again placed in
the water, I was invited to take my seat It ap-
peared to me pretty much like the embarkation
of the wise men of Gotham, who went to sea in a
bowl : I stepped in, however, without hesitation,
though as cautiously as possible, and sat down on
top of the luggage, the margin of the hide sink-
ing to within a hand's breadth of the water's
edge. Rifles, fowling-pieces, and other articles
of small bulk, were then handed in, until I pro-
tested against receiving any more freight We
then launched forth upon the stream, the bark
being towed as before.
It was with a sensation half serious, half comic,
that I found myself thus afloat, on the skin of a
buflalo, in the midst of a wild river, surrounded
by wilderness, and towed along by a half-savage,
whooping and yeUing like a devil incarnate. To
please the vanity of little Tonish, I discharged the
double-barrelled gun, to the right and left, when
in the centre of the stream. The report echoed
along the woody shores, and was answered by
shouts from some of the i*angers, to the great ex-
altation of the little Frenchman, who took to him-
self the whole glory of this Indian mode of nav-
igation.
Our voyage was accomplished happily; the
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 75
Commissioner was ferried across with equal suc-
cess, and all our effects were brought over in the
same manner. Nothing could equal the vainglo-
rious vaporing of little Tonish, as he strutted
about the shore, and exulted in his superior skill
and knowledge, to the rangers. Beatte, however,
kept his proud, saturnine look, without a smile.
He had a vast contempt for the ignorance of the
rangers, and felt that he had been undervalued
by them. His only observation was, "Dey now
see de Indian good for someting, anyhow ! "
The broad, sandy shore where we had landed,
was intersected by innumerable tracks of elk, deer,
bears, racoons, turkeys, and water -fowl. The
river scenery at this place was beautifully diver,
sified, presenting long, shining reaches, bordered
by willows and cotton-wood trees ; rich bottoms,
with lofty forests; among which towered enor-
mous plane-trees, and the distance was closed in
by high embowered promontories. The foliage
had a yellow autumnal tint, which gave to the
sunny landscape the golden tone of one^ of the
landscapes of Claude Lorraine. There was ani-
mation given to the scene by a raft of logs and
branches, on which the Captain and his prime
con^anion, the Doctor, were ferrying their effects
acaross the stream ; and by a long line of rangers
on horseback, fording the river obliquely, along
n series of sand-bars, about a mile and a half dis-
tant
5SS
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CHAPTER Xm.
THB OAMP OF THB GLBN'.
OAMP-OOaSIP. — PAWITBKS AND THBIB HABITS. — A HUHTXE'S AX>VIS-
TURB. — HOSSSS FOUin>, AND MEN I.OST.
IEING joined by the Captain and some
of the rangers, we struck into the woods
for about half a mile, and then entered a
wild, rocky dell, bordered by two lofty ridges of
lime-stone, which narrowed as we advanced, un-
til they met and united ; making almost an angle.
Here a fine spring of water rose among the rocks,
and fed a silver rill that ran the whole length of
the dell, freshening the grass with which it was
carpeted.
In this rocky nook we encamped, among tall
trees. The rangers gradually joined us, strag-
gling through the forest singly or in groups ;
some on horseback, some on foot, driving their
horses before them, heavily laden with baggage,
some dripping wet, having fallen into the river '
for they had experienced much fatigue and
trouble from the length of the ford and the depth
and rapidity of the stream. They looked not
unlike banditti returning with their plunder ; and
the wild dell was a retreat worthy to receive
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A TOUR ON TBE PRAlRIEa. W
them. The eflfect was heightened after darkj
when the light of the fires was cast upon rugged-
looking groups of men and horses ; with haggage
tumbled in heaps, rifles piled against the trees,
and saddles, bridles, and powder-horns hanging
about their trunks.
At the encampment we were joined bj the
young Count and his companion, and the young
half-breed, Antoine, who had all passed success-
fully by the ford. To my annoyance, however,
I discovered that both of my horses were missing.
I had supposed them in the charge of Antoine :
but he, with characteristic carelessness, had paid
no heed to them, and they had probably wandered
from the line on the opposite side of the river.
It was arranged that Beatte and Antoine should
recross the river at an early hour of the morning,
in search of them.
A fat buck and a number of wild turkeys be-
ing brought into the camp, we managed, with the
addition of a cup of coffee, to make a comfortable
supper ; after which I repaired to the Cs^tain's
lodge, which was a kind of council-fire and gos-
nping-plaoe fcH* the veterans of the camp.
As we were conversing together, we observed,
as on former nights, a dusky, red glow in the
west, above the summits of the surrounding cliffs.
It was again attributed to Indian fires on the
prairies ; and supposed to be on the western side
of Uie Arkansas. K so, it was thought they
must be made by some party of Pawnees, as the
Osage hunters seldom ventured in that quarter.
Oar half4)reeds, however, pnmounced them Osage
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78 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
fires, and that they were on the opposite side
of the Arkansas.
The conversation now turned upon the Paw-
nees, into whose hunting-grounds we were about
entering. There is always some wild untamed
tribe of Indians, who form for a time the terror
of a frontier, and about whom all kinds of fearRil
stories are told. Such, at present, was the case
with the Pawnees, who rove the regions between
the Arkansas and the Bed River, and the prai-
ries of Texas. They were represented as admi-
rable horsemen, and always on horseback, —
mounted on fleet and hardy steeds, the wild race
of the prairies. With these they roam the great
plains that extend about the Arkansas, the Bed
River, and through Texas, to the Rocky Mountains ;
sometimes engaged in hunting the deer and buf-
&lo, sometimes in warlike and predatory expedi-
tions; for, like their counterparts, the sons of
Ishmael, their hand is against every one, and
every one's hand against them. Some of them
have no fixed habitation, but dwell in tents of
skins, easily packed up and transported, so that
they are here to-day, and away, no one knows
where, to-morrow.
One of the veteran hunters gave several anec-
dotes of their mode of fighting. Luckless, accord-
ing to his account, is the band of weary traders
or hunters descried by them, in the midst of a
prairie. Sometimes they i/nll steal upon them
by stratagem, hanging with one leg over the sad-
dle, and their bodies concealed, — so that their
troop at a distance has the appearance of a gang
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A TOUR ON THE PBAIBIEB. 79
of wild horses. When thej have thus gained
sufficiently upon the enemy, they will suddenly
raise themselves in their saddles, and come like a
rushing hlast, all flattering with feathers, shaking
their mantles, hrandishing their weapons, and
making hideous yells. In this way they seek to
strike a panic into the horses, and put them to
the scamper, when they will pursue and carry them
off in triumph.
The hest mode of defence, according to this
veteran woodsman, is to get into the covert of
Bome wood, or thicket ; or, if there be none at
hand, to dismount, tie the horses firmly head to
head in a circle, so that they cannot break away
and scatter, and resort to the shelter of a ravine,
or make a hollow in the. sand, where they may be
screened from the shafts of the Pawnees. The
latter chiefly use the bow and arrow, and are dex-
terous archers, — circUng round and round their
enemy, and launching their arrows when at full
speed. They are chiefly formidable on the prai-
ries, where they have free career for their horses,
and no trees to turn aside their arrows. They
will rarely follow a flying enemy into the forest.
Several anecdotes, also, were given, of the
secrecy and caution with which they will follow,
and hang about the camp of an enemy, seeking a
favorable moment for plunder or attack.
" We must now begin to keep a sharp look-
out," said the Captain. "I must issue written
orders, that no man shall hunt without leave, or
fire off a gun, on pain of riding a wooden horse
with a sharp back. I have a wild crew of young
6
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80 CJULYON MISCELLANY.
•
fellows, nnaocustomed to frontier serrice. It
mil be difficult to teach them caution. We are
now in the land of a silent, watchful, crafty peo«
pie, who, when we least suspect it, may be around
us, spying out all our movements, and ready to
pounce upon all stragglers."
" How will you be able to keep your men from
firing, if they see game while strolling round the.
camp ? " asked one of the rangers.
''They must not take their guns with them
miless they are on duty, or have permission."
''Ah, Captain!'' cried the ranger, "that will
never do for me. Where I go, my rifle goes. I
never like to leave it behind ; it 's like a part of
mysel£ There 's no one will take such care of
it as I, and there 's nothing will take such care
of me as my rifle."
" There 's truth in all that," said the Captain,
touched by a true hunter's sympathy. " I *ve had
my rifle pretty nigh as long as I have had my
wife, and a faithful friend it has been to me."
Here the Doctor, who is as keen a hunter as
the Captain, joined in the conversation : — "A
neighbor of mine says, next to my rifle, I 'd as
leave lend you my i/dfe."
"There's few," observed the Captain, "that
take care of their rifles as they ought to be
taken care of."
" Or of their wives either," replied the Doctor,
with a wink.
" That 's a feet," rejoined the Captain.
Word was now brought that a party of four
rangers, headed by "Old Ryan," were missing.
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 81
Thej had separated fix)m the main body, on the
opposite side of the river, when searching for a
ford, and had straggled off, Nobody knew whither.
Manj conjectures were made about them, and
some apprehensions expressed for their safety.
^ I should send to look after them," said the*
Certain, <<but old Rjan is with them, and he
knows how to take care of himself and of them
too. If it were not for him, I would not give
much for the rest ; but he is as much at home in
the woods or on a prairie as he would be in his
own &rm-7ard. He 's never lost, wherever he is.
There's a good gang of them to stand by one
another, — four to watch, and one to take care (^
the fire."
'^ It 's a dismal thing to get lost at night in a
strange and wild country," said one of the younger
rangers.
" Not if you have one or two in company,"
said an older one. ^ For my part, I could feel
as cheerful in this hollow as in my own home, if
I had but one comrade to take turns to watch
and keep the fire going. I could lie here for
hours, and gaze up to that blazing star there,
that seems to look down into the camp as if it
were keeping guard over it"
^ Aye, the stars are a kind of company to one,
when you have to keep watch alone. That's a
dieerM star, too, somehow ; that 's the evening
star, the planet Venus they call it, I think."
« If that 's the planet Venus," said one of the
council, who, I believe, was the psalm-singing
schoolmaster, ^ it bodes us no good ; for I recol-
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82 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
lect reading in some book that the Pawnees wor*
Bhip that star, and sacrifioe their prisoners to it.
So I should not feel the better for the sight of
that star in this part of the country."
"WeU," said the sergeant^ a thorough-bred
'woodsman, ''star or no star, I have passed many
a night alone in a wilder place than this, and slept
sound too, I '11 warrant you. Once, however, I
had rather an uneasy time of it I was belated
in passing through a tract of wood, near the Tom-
bigbee Riyer ; so I struck a light, made a fire,
and turned my horse loose, while I stretched my-
self to sleep. By-and-by, I heard the wolves
howl. My horse came crowding near me for
protection, for he was terribly frightened. I
drove him off, but he returned, and drew nearer
and nearer, and stood looking at me and at the
fire, and dozing, and nodding, and tottering on
his fore-feet, for he was powerful tired. After a
while, I heard a strange dismal cry. I thought
at first it might be an owL I heard it again,
and then I knew it was not an owl, but must be
a panther. I felt rather awkward, for I had no
weapon but a double-bladed penknife. I how-
ever prepared for defence in the best way I could,
and piled up small brands fix)m the fire, to pep-
per him with, should he come nigh. The com-
pany of my horse now seemed a comfort to me ;
the poor creature laid down beside me and soon
fell asleep, being so tired. I kept watch, and nod-
ded and dozed, and started awake, and looked
round, expecting to see the glaring eyes of the
panther dose upon me ; but, somehow or other,
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A TOUR ON THE PBA1RIE8. 88
fiidgae got the better of me, and I fell asleep out-
right In the morning I found the tracks of a
panther within sixtj paces. Thej were as large
as mj two fists. He had evidently been walk-
ing backwards and forwards, trying to make up
his mind to attack me ; but luckily, he had not
courage."
Oct 16. I awoke before daybreak. The
moon was shining feebly down into the glen, from
among light drifting clouds ; the camp-fires were
nearly burnt out, and the men lying about them,
wrapped in blankets. With the first streak of
day, our huntsman, Beatte, with Antoine, the
young half-breed, set off to recross the river, in
search of the stray horses, in company with sev-
eral rangers who had left their rifles on the op-
posite shore. As the ford was deep, and they
were obliged to cross in a diagonal line, against
a rapid current, they had to be mounted on the
tallest and strongest horses.
By eight o'clock, Beatte returned. He had
found the horses, but had lost Antoine. The lat*
ter, he said, was a boy, a greenhorn, that knew
nothing of the woods. He had wandered out of
sight of him, and got lost However, there were
plenty more for him to fall in company with, as
some of the rangers had gone astray also, and old
Ryan and his party had not returned.
We waited until the morning was somewhat
advanced, in hopes of being rejoined by the strag-
glers, but they did not make their appearance.
The Captain observed, that th^ Indians on the
of^posite Bide of the river were all well disposed.
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84 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
to the whites ; so that no serious apprehensions
need be entertained for the safety of the missing.
The greatest danger was^ that their horses might
be stolen in the night hj straggling Osages. He
determined, therefore, to proceed, leaving a rear-
guard in the camp to await their arrival.
I sat on a rock that overhung the spring at
the upper part of the dell, and amused myself by
watching the changing scene before me. First,
the preparations for departure. Horses driven
in from the purlieus of the camp ; rangers riding
about among rocks and bushes in quest of others
that had strayed to a distance ; the bustle of
packing up camp-equipage, and the clamor after
kettles and frying-pans borrowed by one mess
from another, mixed up with oaths and exclama-
tions at restive horses, or others that had wan-
dered away to graze after being packed : among
which the voice of our little Frenchman, Tonish,
was particularly to be distinguished.
The bugle sounded the signal to mount and
march. The troop filed off in irregular line down
the glen, and through the open forest, winding
and gradually disappearing among the trees,
though the clamor of voices and the notes of the
bugle could be heard for some time afterwards.
The rear-guard remained under the trees in the
lower part of the dell : some on horseback, with
their rifles on their shoulders ; others seated by
the fire or lying on the ground, gossiping in a low,
lazy tone of voice, their horses unsaddled, standing
and dozing around; while one of the rangers,
profiting by thia interval of leisure, was shaving
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A TOUR ON THE PEAIBXE8. 85
himself before a pocket-mirror stuck against the
trunk of a tree.
The clamor of voices and the notes of the bu-
gle at length died away, and the glen relapsed into
quiet and silence, broken occasionally by the low
murmuring tone of the group around the fire, or
the pensive whistle of some laggard among the
trees ; or the rustling of the yellow leaves, which
the lightest breath of air brought down in waver-
ing showers, a sign of the departing glories of the
year.
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CHAPTER XIV.
SEBBpSHOonira.— un oir tbm psaibiis.— bsaotiful nroAiiPicm*—
BUKTBR'S luck. — ARBGDOSBS OF THB DBIJLWA&BS AND THSIE SUPXBr
snnoKS.
JAVING passed through the skirt of
woodland bordering the river, we as-
cended the hills, taking a westerly course
through an undulating country of " oak openings,"
where the eye stretched over wide tracts of hill
and dale, diversified by forests, groves, and clumps
of trees. As we were proceeding at a slow pace,
.those who were at the head of the line descried
four deer grazing on a grassy slope about half a
mile distant They apparently had not perceived
our approach, and continued to graze in perfect
tranquillity. A young ranger obtained permission
from the Captain to go in pursuit of them, and
the troop halted in lengthened line, watching him
in silence. Walking hb horse slowly and cau-
tiously, he made a circuit until a screen of wood
intervened between him and the deer. Dismount-
ing then, he left his horse among the trees, and
creeping round a knoll, was hidden from our view.
"We now kept our eyes intently fixed on the deer,
which continued grazing, unconscious of their
danger. Presently there was the sharp report of
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 87
a rifle ; a fine buck made a convulsive bound and
fell to the earth ; his companions scampered off.
Immediately our whole line of march was broken ,
there was a helter-skelter galloping of the young.
Bters of the troop, eager to get a shot at the fu-
gitives ; and one of the most conspicuous person-
ages in the chase was our little Frenchman
Tonish on his silver -gray, having abandoned
his pack-horses at the first sight of the deer. It
was some time before our scattered forces could
be recalled by the bugle, and our march resumed.
Two or three times in the course of the day
we were interrupted by hurry-scurry scenes of
the kind. The young men of the troop were fiiU
of excitement on entering an unexplored country
abounding in game, and they were too little ac-
customed to discipline or restraint to be kept in
order. No one, however, was more unmanage-
able than Tonish. Having an intense conceit of
his skill as a hunter, and an irrepressible passion
£>r display, he was continually sallying forth,
like an ill-broken hound, whenever any game
was started, and had as often to be whipped back.
At length his curiosity got a salutary check.
A fiit doe came bounding along in full view of
the whole liqe. Tonish dismounted, levelled his
rifie, and had a fair shot The doe kept on. He
sprang upon his horse, stood up on the saddle
like a posture-master, and continued gazing after
the animal as if certain to see it &1L The doe,
however, kept on its way rejoicing; a laugh
broke out along the line, the little Frenchman
slipped quietly into his saddle, began to belabor
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88 CRAYON MiaCELLANY.
and blaspheme the wandering pack-horses, as if
they had been to blame, and for some time we
were relieved from his vaunting and vaporing.
In one place of our march we came to the
remains of an old Indian encampment, on the
banks of a fine stream, with the moss-grown
skulls of deer lying here and there about it As
we were in the Pawnee country, it was supposed,
of course, to have been a camp of those formida-
ble rovers ; the Doctor, however, after consider-
ing the shape and disposition of the lodges, pro-
nounced it the camp of some bold Delawares,
who had probably made a brief and dashing
excursion into these dangerous hunting-grounds.
BLaving proceeded some distance ftirther, we
observed a couple of figures on horseback, slowly
moving parallel to us along the edge of a naked
hill about two miles distant; and apparently
reconnoitring us. There was a halt, and much
gazing and conjecturing. Were they Indians?
If Indians, were they Pawnees ? There is some*
thing exciting to the imagination and stirring to
the feelings, while traversing these hostile plains,
in seeing a horseman prowling along the horizon.
It is like descrying a sail at sea in time of war,
when it may be either a privateer or a pirate.
Our conjectures were soon set at rest by recon-
noitring the two horsemen through a small spy-
glass, when they proved to be two of the men we
had left at the camp, who had set out to rejoin us,
and had wandered ftx)m the track.
Our march this day was animating and delight-
fiiL We were in a jegion of adventure ; break*
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A TOUR OK THE PRAIRIES. 89
ing our way through a country hitherto untrodden
by white men, excepting perchance by some soli-
tary trapper. The weather was in its perfection,
temperatey genial, and enlivening ; a deep blue
sky with a few light feathery clouds, an atmos-
phere of perfect transparency, an air pure and
bland, and a glorious country spreading out &r
and wide in the golden sunshine of an autumnal
day; but all silent, lifeless, without a human
habitation, and apparentiy without a human in-
habitant ! It was as if a ban hung over this
fiur but fated region. The very Indians dared
not abide here, but made it a mere scene of per-
ilous enterprise, to hunt for a few days, and then
away.
After a march of about fifteen miles west we
encamped in a beautiful peninsula, made by the
windings and doublings of a deep, clear, and
almost motionless brook, and covered by an open
grove of lofty and magnificent trees. Several
hunters* immediately started forth in quest of
game before the noise of the camp should frighten
it ftom the vicinity. Our man, Beatte, also took
his rifle and went forth alone, in a difierent course
icom the rest.
For my own part, I laid on the grass under
the trees, and built castles in the clouds, and in-
dulged in the very luxury of rural repose. In-
deed I can scarcely conceive a kind of life more
calculated to put both mind and body in a health-
ful tone. A morning's ride of several hours
diversified by hunting incidents ; an encampment
in the afternoon under some noble grove on the
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90 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
borders of a stream; an evening banquet of
venison, fresh killed, roasted, or broiled on the
coals; turkeys just from the thickets, and wild
honey from the trees ; and all relished with an
appetite unknown to the gourmets of the cities.
And at night — such sweet sleeping in the open
air, or waking and gazing at the moon and stars,
shining between the trees !
On the present occasion, however, we had not
much reason to boast of our larder. But one
deer had been killed during the day, and none of*
that had reached our lodge. We were fain, there-
fore, to stay our keen appetites by some scraps
of turkey brought from the last encampment,
eked out with a slice or two of salt pork. This
scarcity, however, did not continue long. Before
dark, a young hunter returned well laden with
spoil He had shot a deer, cut it up in an artist-
like style, and, putting the meat in a kind of sack
made of the hide, had slung it across his shoulder
and trudged with it to camp.
Not long after, Beatte made his appearance
with a fat doe across his horse. It was the first
game he had brought in, and I was glad to see
him with a trophy that might efface the memory
of the polecat. He laid the carcass down by our
fire without sajdng a word, and then turned to
unsaddle his horse ; nor could any questions from
us about his hunting draw from him more than
laconic replies. If Beatte, however, observed
this Indian taciturnity about what he had done,
Tonish made up for it by boasting of what he
meant to do. Now that we were in a good hunt*
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES, 91
ing country, he meant to take the field, and, if
we would take his word for it, our lodge would
henceforth be overwhelmed with game. Luckily
his talking did not prevent his working ; the doe
was skilfully dissected, several fat ribs roasted
before the fire, the cofiee-kettle replenished, and
in a little while we were enabled to indemnify
ourselves luxuriously for our late meagre repast.
The Captain did not return until late, and he
returned empty-handed. He had been in pursuit
of his usual game, the deer, when he came upon
the tracks of a gang of about sixty elk. Having
never killed an animal of the kind, and the elk
being at this moment an object of ambition among
aU the veteran hunters of the camp, he abandoned
his pursuit of the deer, and followed the newly
discovered track. After some time he came in
sight of the elk, and had several fair chances of
a shot, but was anxious to bring down a large
buck which kept in the advance. Finding at
length there was danger of the whole gang es-
caping him, he fired at a doe. The shot took
efiect, but the animal had sufficient strength to
keep on for a time with its companions. From
the tracks of blood he felt confident it was mor-
tally wounded, but evening coming on, he could
not keep the trail, and had to give up the search
until morning.
Old Ryan and his little band had not yet re-
joined us, neither had our young half-breed An-
toine made his appearance. It was determined,
therefore, to remain at our encampment for the
following day, to give time for aU stragglers to
arrive.
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92 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
The oonversation this evening, among the old
huntsmen^ tamed upon the Delaware tribe, one
of whose encampments we had passed in the
course of the day ; and anecdotes were given of
their prowess in war and dexterity in hunting.
They used to be deadly foes of the Osages, who
stood in great awe of their desperate valor, though
they were apt to attribute it to a whimsical cause.
" Look at the Delawares," would they say, *' dey
got short leg — no can run — must stand and
fight a great heap." In fact^ the Delawares are
rather short-legged, while the Osages are remark-
able for length of limb.
The expeditions of the Delawares,' whether of
war or hunting, are wide and fearless ; a small
band of them will penetrate far into these dan-
gerous and hostile wilds, and will push their en-
campments even to the Rocky Mountains. This
daring temper may be in some measure en-
couraged by one of the superstitions of their creed.
They'beUeve that a guardian spirit, in the form
of a great eagle, watches over them, hovering in
the sky, far out of sight. Sometimes, when well
pleased with them, he wheels down into the lower
regions, and may be seen circling with wide-
spread wings against the white clouds ; at such
times the seasons are propitious, the com grows
finely, and they have great success in hunting.
Sometimes, however, he is angry, and then he
vents his rage in the thunder, which is his voice,
and the lightning, which is the flashing of his eye,
and strikes dead the object of his displeasure.
The Delawares make sacrifices to this spirit,
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 93
w1k> occasionally lets drop a feather from his wing
in token of satisfaction. These feathers render
the wearer invisible and invulnerable. Indeed,
the Indians generallj consider the feathers of the
eagle possessed of occult and sovereign virtues.
At one time a party of the Delawares, in the
course of a bold excursion into the Pawnee hunt-
ing-grounds, were surrounded on one of the great
plains, and nearly destroyed. The remnant took
refuge on the summit of one of those isolated and
conical hilk which rise almost like artificial mounds,
from the midst of the prairies. Here the chief
warrior, driven almost to despair, sacrificed his
horse to the tutelar spirit. Suddenly an enor-
mous eagle, rushing down from the sky, bore off
the victim in his talons, and mounting into the
air, dropped a quill-feather from his wing. The
chief caught it up with joy, bound it to his fore-
head, and, leading his followers down the hill, cut
his way through the enemy with great slaughter,
and without any one of his party receiving a
wound.
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CHAPTER XV.
TBI 81AB0H rOB TBI SLX. — PAWmB STOBBS.
llTH the morning dawn, the prime hanU
ers of the camp were all on the alert|
and set off in different directions, to beat
up the country for game. The Captain's brother.
Sergeant Bean, was among the first, and returned
before break^t with success, having killed a &Lt
doe almost within the purlieus of the camp.
When breakfast was over, the Captain mounted
his horse, to go in quest of the elk which he had
wounded on the preceding evening; and which,
he was persuaded, had received its death-wound.
I determined to join him in the search, and we
accordingly sallied forth together, accompanied
also by his brother, the sergeant, and a lieutenant.
Two rangers followed on foot, to bring home the
carcass of the doe which the sergeant had killed.
We had not ridden far when we came to where
it lay, on the side of a hill, in the midst of a
beautiful woodland scene. The two rangers im-
mediately fell to work, with true hunters' skill to
dismember it, and prepare it for transportation to
the camp, while we continued on our course.
We passed along sloping hill-sides, among skirts
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 95
of thicket and scattered forest-trees, until we came
to a place where the long herbage was pressed
down with numerous elk-beds. Here the Captain
had first roused the gang of elks ; and, after look-
ing about diligently for a little while, he pointed
out their " trail," the footprints of which were as
large as those of homed cattle. He now put him-
self upon the track, and went quietly forward,
the rest of us following him in Indian file. At
length he halted at the place where the elk had
been when shot at. Spots of blood on the sur-
rounding herbage showed that the shot had been
effective. The wounded animal had evidently
kept for some distance with the rest of the herd,
as could be seen by sprinklings of blood, here and
there, on the shrubs and weeds bordering the
traiL These at length suddenly disappeared*
** Somewhere hereabout,** said the Captain, " the
elk must have turned off from the gang. When-
ever they feel themselves mortally wounded, they
will turn aside and seek some out*of-the-way
place to die alone."
There was something in this picture of the last
moments of a wounded deer to touch the sym-
pathies of one not hardened to the gentle disports
of the chase ; such s^rmpathies, however, are but
transient. Man is naturally an animal of prey ;
and, however changed by civilization, will readily
relapse into his instinct for destruction. I found
my ravenous and sanguinary propensities daily
growing stronger upon the prairies.
After looking about for a little while, the Gap*
tain succeeded in finding the separate trail of i^e
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M CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
wonnded elk, whidi tamed off almost at right
angles from that of the herd, and entered an open
forest of scattered trees. The traces of blood
became more &int and rare, and occurred at
greater distances; at length they ceased alto-
gether, and the groand was so hard, and the
herbage so much parched and withered, that the
footprints of the animal could no longer be per-
ceived.
^ The elk must lie somewhere in this neighbor*
hood," said the Captain, ** as you may know by
those turkey-buzzards wheeling about in the air ;
for they always hover in that way above some
carcass^ However, the dead elk cannot get
away, so let us follow the trail of the living
ones : they may have halted at no great distance,
and we may find liiem grazing, and get another
crad: at them.**
We accordingly returned, and resumed the
trail of the elks, which led us a straggling course
over hill and dale, covered with scattered oaks.
Every now and then we would catch a glimpse
of a deer bounding away across some glade pf
the forest, but the Captain was not to be diverted
fix>m his elk-hunt by such inferior game. A
large flock of wild turkeys, too, were roused by
the trampling oi our horses ; some scampered off
as fast as their long legs could carry them ; others
fluttered up into the trees, where they remained
with outstretched necks, gazing at us. The Cap*
tain would not allow a rifle to be discharged at
Hiem, lest it should alarm the elk, which he hoped
to find In the vicinity. At lengdi we came to
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A TOITR ON TBE PRAIRtES. 97
where ^e forest ended in a steep bank, and the
Bed Fork wound its way below us, between
broad sandy shores. The trail descended the
bank, and we could trace it, with our eyes, across
the level sands, until it terminated in the river,
which, it was evident, the gang had forded on the
preceding evening.
^ It is needless to follow on any further," said
the Captain. <^The elk must have been muph
frightened, and, after crossing the river, may have
kept on for twenty miles without stopping."
Our little party now divided, the lieutenant and
sergeant making a circuit in quest of game, and
the Captain and myself taking the' direction of
the camp. On our way, we came to a buffalo
track more than a year old. It was not wider
than an ordinary footpath, and worn deep into
the soil ; for these animals follow each other in
mngle file. Shortly afterwards, we met two
rangers on foot, hunting. They had wounded an
d&, but he had escaped ; and in pursuing him,
had fi>und the one shot by the Captain on the
preceding evening. They turned back, and con-
ducted us to it. It was a noble animal, as large
as a yearling heifer, and lay in an open part of
the forest, about a mile and a half distant from
the place where it had been shot. The turkey*
buzzards wluch we had previoudy noticed were
wheeling in the ur above it The observation
of the Captain seemed verified. The poor an-
imal, as life was ebbing away, had apparently
abaDdoned its unhurt companions, and turned
aside to die alone.
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98 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
The Captain and the two rangers forthwith
fell to work, with their hunting-knives, to flay
and cut up the carcass. It was already tainted
on the inside, but ample coUops were cut from
the ribs and haunches, and laid in a heap on the
outstretched hide. Holes were then cut along
the border of the hide, raw thongs were passed
through them, and the whole drawn up like a
sack, which was swung behind the Captain's
saddle. All this while the turkey-buzzards were
soaring overhead, waiting for our departure, to
swoop down and banquet on the carcass.
The wreck of the poor elk being thus dis-
mantled, the^ Captain and myself mounted our
horses, and jogged back to the camp, while the
two rangers resumed their hunting.
On reaching the camp, I found there our young
half-breed, Antoine. After separating from
Beatte, in the search after the stray horses on
the other side of the Arkansas, he had &llen
upon a wrong track, which he followed for
several miles, when he overtook old Ryan and
his party, and found he had been following their
traces.
They aU forded the Arkansas about eight miles
above our crossing«place, and found their way to
our late encampment in the glen, where the rear-
guard we had left behind was waiting for them.
Antoine, being well mounted, and somewhat im»
patient to rejoin us, had pushed on alone, follow
ing our trail, to our present encampment, and
bringing the carcass of a young bear which he
hadkiUed.
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES, 99
; Oar camp, during the residue of the day, pre-
sented a mmgled picture of bustle and repose*
Some of the men were busy round the fires, jerk-
ing and roasting venison and bear's meat, to be
packed up as a future supply. Some were stretch-
ing and dressing the skins of the animals they
had killed ; others were washing their clothes in
the brook, and hanging them on the bushes to
dry ; while many were lying on the grass, and
lazily gossiping in the shade. Every now and
then a hunter would return, on horseback or on
foot, laden with game, or empty-handed. Those
who brou^t home any spoil, deposited it at the
Captain's fire, and then filed off to their respec-
tive messes, to relate their day's exploits to their
companions. The game killed at this camp con^
sisted of six deer, one elk, two bears, and six or
eight turkeys.
During the last two or three days, since their
wild Indian achievement in navigating the river,
our retainers had risen in consequence among the
rangers ; and now I found Tonish making himself
a complete oracle among some of the raw and
inexperienced recruits, who had never been in
the wilderness. He had continually a knot hang-
ing about him, and listening to his extravagant
tales about the Pawnees, with whom he pretended
to have had fearful encounters. His representa-
tions, in &ct, were calculated to inspire his
liearers with an awful idea of the foe into whose
lands they were intruding. According to his ac-
counts, the rifle of the white man was no match
£or the bow and arrow of the Pawnee. When
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100 CSATOK MiaCELLANT.
the rifle was once discharged, it took time aud
troable to load it again, and in the mean time the
enemy could keep on launching his shafts as &st
as he oould draw his bow. Then the Pawnee,
according to Tonish, could shoot, with unerring
aim, three hundred yards, and send his arrow
dean through and through a bufialo ; nay, he had
known a Pawnee shaft pass through one buffido
and wound another. And then the way the Paw*
nees sheltered themselves from the shots of their
enemy : they would hang with one leg over the
saddle, crouching their bodies along the opposite
side of their horse, and would shoot their arrows
from under his neck, while at full speed !
If Tonish was to be believed, there was peril
at every step in these debatable grounds of the
Indian tribes. Pawnees lurked unseen among
Ihe thickets and ravines. They had their scouts
and sentinels on the summit of the mounds wluch
command a view over the prairies, where they
lay crouched in the tall grass; only now and
then raising their heads to watch the movements
of any war or hunting party that might be pass*
Ing in lengthened line below. At night, they
would lurk round an encampment; crawling
through the grass, and imitating the movements
of a wolf, so as to deceive the sentinel on the
outpost, until, having arrived sufficiently near,
they would speed an arrow Uirough his heart,
and retreat undiscovered. In telling his stories,
Tonish would appeal from time to time to Beatte
for the truth of what he said-; the only reply
would be a nod, or shrug of the shoulders ; tlie
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES.
101
latter being divided in mind between a c^taste
for the gasconading spirit of his comrade, and
a sovereign contempt for the inexperience of
the young rangers in all that he considered true
knowledge.
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CHAPTER XVI.
A SICK-CAMP. — THE HA&OH. — THB DISABLED HOBSE. — OLD BTAN AND
THE ST&AOGLEaS. — STMPTOMS OF OHAMaE OF WEATHEB, AMD OHAHOI
OF HUMOBS.
October 18.
i E prepared to inarch at the usual hour
but word was brought to the Captain
that three of the rangers, who had been
attacked with the measles, were unable to pro-
ceed, and that another one was missing. The
last was an old frontiersman, by the name of
Sawyer, who had gained years without expe-
rience ; and having sallied forth to hunt, on the
preceding day, had probably lost his way on the
prairies. A guard of ten men was, therefore,
left to take care of the sick, and wait for the
straggler. If the former recovered sufficiently in
the course of two or three days, they were to re-
join the main body, otherwise to be escorted
back to the garrison.
Takbg our leave of the sick-camp, we shaped
our course westward, along the heads of small
streams, all wandering, in deep ravines, towards
the Red Fork. The land was high and undulat-
ing, or " rolling," as it is termed in the West ;
with a poor hungry soil mingled with the sand-
stone, which is unusual in this part of the coao-
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A TOVR ON THE PRAIRIES. lOi
try, and checkered with harsh forests of post-oak
and black-jack.
In the course of the morning I received a
lesson on the importance of being chary of one's
steed on the prairies. The one I rode surpassed
in action most horses of the troop, and was of
great mettle and a generous spirit In crossing
the deep ravines, he would scramble up the steep
banks like a cat, and was always for leaping the
narrow runs of water. I was not aware of the
imprudence of indulging him in such exertions,
imtil, in leaping him across a small brook, I felt
him immediately falter beneath me. He limped
forward a short distance, but soon fell stark lame,
having sprained his shoulder. What was to be
done? He could not keep up with the troop,
and was too valuable to be abandoned on the
prairie. The only alternative was to send him
back to join the inviQids in the sick-camp, and to
share their fortunes. Nobody, however, seemed
disposed to lead him back, although I offered a
liberal reward. Either the stories of Tonish
about the Pawnees had spread an apprehension
of lurking foes and imminent perils on the prai-
ries, or there was a fetur of missing the trail and
getting lost. At length two young men stepped
forward and agreed to go in company, so that,
should they be benighted on the prairies, there
might be one to watch while the other slept.
Tlie horse was accordingly consigned to their
care, and I looked a^r him with a rueful eye, as
he limped o£^ for it seemed as if, with him, all
strength and baoyan<y had departed from me.
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104 CBATON MISCELLANY.
I looked round foF a steed to supply his place,
and fixed my eyes upon the gallant gray which I
had transferred at Uie Agency to Tonish. The
moment, however, that I hinted about his dis>
mounting and taking up with the supernumerary
pony, the little varlet broke out into vociferous
remonstrances and lamentations, gasping and al-
most strangling, in his eagerness to give vent to
them. I saw that to unhorse him would be to
prostrate his spirit and cut his vanity to the
quick. I had not the heart to inflict such a
wound, or to bring down the poor devil from his
transient vainglory ; so I left him in possession
of his gallant gray, and contented myself with
shifting my saddle to the jaded pony.
I was now sensible of the complete reverse to
which a horseman is exposed on the prairies. I
felt how completely the spirit of the rider depend-
ed upon his steed. I had hitherto been able to
make excursions at will from the line, and to
gallop in pursuit of any object of interest or
curiosity. I was now reduced to the tone of the
jaded animal I bestrode, and doomed to plod on
patiently and slowly after my file-leader. Above
all, I was made conscious how unwise it is, on
expeditions of the kind, where a man's life may
depend upon the strength and speed and fi^esh-
ness of his horse, to task the generous animal by
any unnecessary exertion of his powers.
I have observed that the wary and experienced
huntsman and traveller of the prairies is always
pparing of his horse, when on a journey ; never,
except 19 emei^gency, putting him off of a walk.
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A TOUB QN TEE PBAIBIES, X05
The regular, joumejings g£ frontiersnieu and
Indians, when on a long march, seldom exceed
above fifteen miles a day, and are generally about
ten or twelve, and they never indulge in capri-
doos gaUopingt Many of those, however, with
whom I was travelling were young and inexpe-
rienced, and full of excitement at finding them-
selves in a country abounding with game. It
was impossible to retain -them in the sobriety of
a march, or to keep them to the line. As we
broke our way through the coverts and ravines,
and the deer started up and scampered off to the
right and left, the rifie-balls would whiz after
them, and our young hunters dash off in pursuit.
At one time they made a grand burst after what
they supposed to be a gang of bears, but soon
pulled up on discovering them to be black wolves,
prowling in company.
After a march of about twelve miles we en^
camped, a little after mid-day, on the borders of
a brook which loitered through a deep ravine^
In the course of the afternoon old Ryan, the
Nestor of the camp, made his appearance, fol*
lowed by his little band of stragglers. He was
greeted with joyftd acclamations, which showed
the estimation in which he was held by his
brother woodmen. The little band came laden
with venison; a fine haunch of which the vet-
eran hunter laid, as a present, by the Captain's
fire.
Our men, Beatte and Tonish, both sallied forth,
early in the aft;emoon, to hunt. Towards even-
ing the former returned, with a fine buck across
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106 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
his horse. He laid it down, as usual, in silence^
and proceeded to unsaddle and turn his horse
loose. . Tonish came back without any game, but
with much more glory, — having made several
capital shots, though unluckily the wounded deer
had all escaped him.
There was an abundant supply of meat in the
camp ; for besides other game, three elk had
been killed. The wary and veteran woodmen
were all busy jerking meat, against a time of
scarcity ; the less experienced revelled in present
abundance, leaving the morrow to provide for
itself.
On the following morning, (Oct 19,) I suo
ceeded in changing my pony and a reasonable
sum of money for a strong and active horse. It
was a great satisfaction to find myself once more
tolerably well mounted. I perceived, however,
that there would be little difficulty in making a
selection fix>m among the troop, for the rangers
had all that propensity for "swapping," or, as
they term it, "trading," which pervades the
West In the course of our expedition there
was scarce a horse, rifle, powder-horn, or blanket,
that did not change owners several times ; and
one keen " trader " boasted of having by dint of
frequent bargains changed a bad horse into a
good one, and put a hundred dollars in his
pocket
The morning was lowering and sultry, with
low muttering of distant thunder. The change
of weather had its effect upon the spirits of the
troop. The camp was unusually sober and quiet ;
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A TOUR ON THE PBAIBIE8. 107
•
there was none of the aocustomed farm-yard
melody of crowing and cackling at daybreak;
none of the bursts of merriment, the loud jokes
and bantenngs, that had commonly prevailed
during the bustle of equipment. Now and then
might be heard a short strain of a song, a fidnt
langh, or a solitary whistle ; but, in general,
every one went silently and doggedly about the
duties of the camp, or the preparations for de-
parture.
When the time arrived to saddle and mount,
B^e horses were reported as missing; although
all the woods and ^ckets had been beaten up
for some distance round the camp. Several
rangers were dispatched to ^^ skir " the country
round in quest of them. In the mean time, the
thunder continued to growl, and we had a pass-
ing shower. The horses, like their riders, were
affected by the change of weather. They stood
here and there about the camp, some saddled and
bridled, others loose, but all spiritless and dozing,
with stooping head, one hind leg partly drawn up
so as to rest on the point of the hoof, and the
whole hide reeking with the rain, and sending up
wreaths of vapor. The men, too, waited in list-
less groups the return of their comrades who had
gone in quest of the horses ; now and then turn-
ing up an anxious eye to the driving clouds,
which boded an approaching storm. Gloomy
weather inspires gloomy thoughts. Some ex-
pi-ossed fears that we were dogged by some party
of Indians, who had stolen the horses in the
night The most prevalent apprehension, how-
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108 CRAtON MiaCELLAIfY.
•
ever, was, that they had returned on their traces
to our last encampment, or had started off on a
direct line for Fort Gibson. In this respect, the
instinct of horses is said to resemble that of the
pigeon. They will strike for home by a direct
course, passing through tracts of wilderness which
they have never before traversed.
After delaying until the morning was some-
what advanced, a lieutenant with a guard was
appointed to await the return of the rangers, and
we set off on our day's journey, considerably re-
duced in numbers ; much, as I thought, to the
discomposure of some <^ the troop, who inti«
mated that we might prove too weak-handed in
case of an encounter with the Pawnees.
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CHAPTER XVn.
soBfi. — nroxAn stobbs.— a vbiohtbhsd hobsi.
|n& march for a part of the day lay a lit-
tle to the south of west, through strag-
gling forests of the kind of low, scrubbdl
trees already mentioned, called ^ post-oaks," and
" black-jacks." TTie soil of these " oak barrens "
is loose and unsound ; being little better at times
than a mere quicksand, in which, in rainy weather,
the horse's hoof slips from side to side, and now
and then sinks in a rotten, spongy turf, to the fet-
lock. Such was the case at present in consequence
of successive thunder-showers, through which we
draggled along in dogged silence. Several deer
were roused by our approach, and scudded across
the forest-glades ; but no one, as formerly, broke
the line of march to pursue them. At one time
we passed the bones and horns of a buffalo, and
at another time a buffalo track not above three
days old. These signs of the vicinity of this
grand game of the pr^es had a reviving effect
on the spirits of our huntsmen ; but it was of
transient duration.
In crossii^ a prairie of moderate extent, ren«
deiBd little better than a slippery bog by the re-
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110 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
cont showers, we were overtaken by a violent
thunder-gnst. The rain came rattling upon us in
torrents, and spattered up like steam along the
ground; the whole landscape was suddenly
wrapped in gloom that gave a vivid effect to the
intense sheets of lightning, while the thunder
seemed to burst over our very heads, and was re-
verberated by the groves and forests that check-
ered and skirted the prairie. Man and beast
were so pelted, drenched, and confounded, that
the line was thrown in complete confusion; —
some of the horses were so frightened as to be al-
most unmanageable, and our scattered cavalcade
looked like a tempest-tossed fleet, driving hither
and thither, at the mercy of wind and wave.
At length, at half past two o'clock, we came to
a halt, and gathering together our forces, en-
camped in an open and lofty grove, with a prairie
on one side and a stream on the other. The
forest immediately rang with the sound of the axe
and the crash of &lling trees. Huge fires were
soon blazing; blankets were stretched before
them, by way of tents ; booths were hastily
reared of bark and skins ; every fire had its group
drawn dose roimd it, drying and warming them-
selves, or preparing a comforting meal. Some
of the rangers were discharging and cleaning
their rifles, which had been exposed to the rain ;
while the horses, relieved from their saddles and
burdens, rolled in the wet grass.
The showers continued from time to time, un-
til late in the evening. Before dark, our horses
were gathered in and tethered about the skirts
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A TOUE ON THE PRAJBIEB. Ill
of the oamp, witfaia the oittpoets, through fear of
Indian prowlers, who are apt to take advantage
of stormy nights for their de{H'edations and as-
saults. As the ni^t thickened, the huge finss
became m(H*e and more luminous ; lighting up
masses of the over-hanging foliage, and leaving
other parts of the grove in deep gloom. Every
fire had its goblin group around it, while iSxd
tethered h^ses were .dimly seen, like spectres,
among the thidcets ; excepting that here azid there
a gray cme stood out in bright relief
The grove, thus fitfully lighted up by the
ruddy glare of the fires, resembled a vast leafy
dome, walled in by opaque darkness ; but every
now and then two or three quivering flashes of
jyightoing in quick succession would suddenly
reveal a vast champaign country, where fields
and forests, and running streams, would start, as
it were, into existence for a few brief seconds, and,
before the eye could aacertain them, vanish agsun
into gloom.
A thunder-storm on a prairie, as upon the
ocean, derives grandeur and sublimity from the
wild and boundless waste over whidi it rages and
bellows. It is not surprising tiiat these awM
phencHnena of nature should be objects oi super-
stitious reverence to the poor savages, and that
they should consider the thunder the angry voice
of the Great Spirit. As our half-breeds sat gos-
aiping round the fire, I drew from them S(»iie of
the notions entertained on the subject by their
Indian friends. The latter declare that extin*
guished thunderbolts are sometimes pidi^ed.iip by
8
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112 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
liuDters on the prairies, who use them for the
heads of arrows and lances, and that anj warrior
thus armed is invincible. Should a thunder-
storm occur^ however, during battle, he is liable
to be carried away by the thunder, and never
heard of more.
A warrior of the Konza tribe, hunting on a
prairie, was overtaken by a storm, and struck
down senseless by the thunder. On recovering, he
beheld the thunderbolt lying on the ground, and
a horse standing beside it. Snatching up the
bolt, he sprang upon the horse, but found, too
late, that he was astride of the lightning. In an
instant he was whisked away over prairies and
forests, and streams and deserts, until he was
flung senseless at the foot of the Bocky Moun-
tfdns ; whence, on recovering, it took him several
months to return to his own people.
This story reminded me of an Indian tradidoa
related by a traveller, of the fate of a warrior
who saw the thunder lying upon the ground, with
a beautifully wrought moccason on each side of
it Thinking he had found a prize, he put on the
moccasons ; but they bore him away to the land
of spirits, whence he never returned.
lliese are simple and artless tales, but they
had a wild and romantic interest heard from the
lips of half savage narrators, round a hunter^s fire,
in a stormy night, with a forest on one side and
a howling waste on the other ; and where, perad*
Tenture, savage foes might be lurking in the outer
darimess.
Oar oonvenation was interrupted by a loud
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 118
dap of thnnder, followed immediately by the
Bound of a horse galloping off madly into the
waste. Every one listened in mute silence. The
hoo& resounded vigorously for a time, but grew
feinter and fainter, until they died away in re-
mote distance.
When the sound was no longer to be heard,
the listeners turned to conjecture what could have
caused this sudden scamper. Some thought the
horse had been startled by the thunder ; others,
that some lurking Indian had gaUoped off with
him. To this it was objected, that the usual
mode with the Indians is to steal quietly upon
the horse, take off his fetters, moimt him gently,
and walk him off as silently as possible, leading
off others, without any unusual stir or noise to
disturb the camp.
On the other hand, it was stated as a common
practice with the Indians, to creep among a troop
of horses when grazing at night, mount one
quietly, and then start off suddenly at full speed.
Nothing is so contagious among horses as a
panic ; one sudden break-away of this kind will
sometimes alarm the whole troop, and they will
set off, helter-skelter, after the leader..
Every one who had a horse grazing on the
skirts of the camp was uneasy lest his should be
the fugitive; but it was impossible to ascertain
the fiict until morning. Those who had tethered
their horses felt more secure ; though horses thus
tied up, and limited to a short range at night,
are apt to &11 off in flesh and strength, during a
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114 CRAYON MISCSLLAHT.
long march ; and many of the horses of the troop
alreadj gave signs of being wajwom.
After a gloomj and anraly night, the morning
dawned bright and dear, and a glorious sanrise
transformed the whole landscape, as if by magic
The late dreary wilderness brightened into a fine
open oonntry, with stately groves, and clumps of
oaks of a gigantic size, some of which stood sin-
gly, as if planted for ornament and shade, in the
midst of ridi meadows ; while our horses, scat"
tered about, and grazing under them, gave to the
whole the air of a noble park. It was difficult to
realize the fikct that we were so far in the wilds
beyond the residence of man. Our encampment
alone had a savage appearance, with its rude
tents of skins and blankets, and its columns of
blue smoke rising among the trees.
The first care in the morning was to look after
our horses. Some of them had wandered to a
distance, but all were fortunately found, — even
the one whose clattering hoofs had caused such
uneasiness in the night. He had come to a halt
about a mile from the camp, and was found quietly
grazing near a brook. The bugle sounded for
departure about half past eight As we were in
greater risk of Indian molestation the forther we
advanced, our line was formed with more pred-
Bum than heretofore. Every one had his station
assigned him, and was forbidden to leave it m
pursuit of game mthout special permission. The
pack-horses were placed in the centre of the line,
and a strong guard in the rear.
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CHAPTER XVlll.
& OUID rmADta. -^ OUrr 0A8TLB. -- BUIVALO TBAOKS. •-- rant HUIRD
BT W0LTX8..— 0B0S8 CDIBZE.
|FTER a toilsome march of some dis-
tance through a comitry cut up by ra-
vines and brooks, and entangled by
thickets, we emerged upon a grand prairie. Here
one of the characteristic scenes of the Far West
broke upon us. An immense extent of grassy,
undulating, or, as it is termed, rolling country,
with here and there a clump of trees dimly seen
in the distance like a ship at sea ; the landscape
deriving sublimity from its vastness and simplic-
ity. To the southwest, on the summit of a hill,
was a singular crest of broken rocks, resembling
a ruined fortress. It reminded me of the ruin
of some Moorish castle, crowning a height in the
midst of a lonely Spanish landscape. To this hiU
we gave the name of Cliff Castle.
The prairies of these great hunting regions
differed in the character of their vegetation from
those through which I had hitherto passed. In-
stead of a profusion of tall flowering plants and
long flauntiz^ grasses, they were covered with a
shorter growth of herbage called buffalo-grass,
somewhat coarse, but, at the proper seasons, af-
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116 CRA TON MISCELLANY.
fording excellent and abundant pasturage. At
present it was growing wiry, and in many places
was too much parched for grazing.
The weather was verging into that serene but
somewhat arid season called the Indian Summer.
There was a smoky haze in the atmosphere that
tempered the brightness of the sunshine into a
golden tint, softening the features of the land*
scape, and giving a vagueness to the outlines of
distant objects. This haziness was daily increas-
ing, and was attributed to the burning of distant
prairies by the Indian hunting parties.
We had not gone far upon the prairie before
we came to where deeply worn footpaths were
seen traversing the country; sometimes two or
three would keep on parallel to each other, and
but a few paces apart These were pronounced
to be traces of buffaloes, where large droves
had passed. There were tracks also of horses,
which were observed with some attention by our
experienced hunters. They could not be the
tracks of wild horses, as there were no prints of
the hoofs of colts ; all were full-grown. As the
horses evidently were not shod, it was concluded
they must belong to some hunting party of Paw-
nees. In the course of the morning, the tracks
of a single horse, with shoes, were discovered.
This might be the horse of a Cherokee hunter,
or perhaps a horse stolen &om the whites of
the frontier. Thus, in traversing these perilous
wastes, every footprint and dint of hoof becomes
matter of cautious inspection and shrewd sur-
mise ; and the question continually is, whether it
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JL TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 117
be the trace of friend or foe, whether of recent
or ancient date, and whether the being that made
it be out of reach, or liable to be encountered.
We were getting more and more into the game
conntry: as we proceeded, we repeatedly saw
deer to the right and left, bounding off for the
coverts ; but their appearance no longer excited
the same eagerness to pursue. In passing along
a slope of the prairie, between two rolling swells
of land, we came in sight of a genuine natural
hunting match. A pack of seven black wolves
and one white one were in full chase of a buck,
which they had nearly tired down. They crossed
the line of our march without apparently per-
ceiving us; we saw them have a fair run of
nearly a mile, gaining upon the buck until they
were leaping upon his haunches, when he plunged
down a ravine. Some of our party galloped to
a rising ground commanding a view of the ravine.
The poor buck was completely beset, some on his
flanks, some at his throat : he made two or three
struggles and desperate bounds, but was dragged
down, overpowered, and torn to pieces. The
black wolves, in their ravenous hunger and fory,
took no notice of the distant group of horsemen ;
but the white wolf, apparently less game, aban*
doned the prey, and scampered over hill and dale,
rousing various deer that were crouched in the
hollows, and which bounded off likewise in differ-
ent directions. It was altogether a wild scene,
worthy of the " hunting grounds."
We now came once more in sight of the Red
F(^k, winding its turbid course between well*:
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118 OMAYOlf MIBCSLLANT.
wooded hills, and thnmgh a Tast and magmfieent
landscape. The prairies bordering on the rivers
are always varied in this way with woodUmd, so
beautilblly interspersed as to appear to have been
laid oni bj the hand of taste; and they onlj
want here and there a village spire, the battle-
ments of a castle, or t^ turrets of an old family
mansion rising from among the trees, to rival the
most ornamented soenery of Europe.
About mid-day we reached the edge of that
scattered belt of forest land, about forty miles in
width, which stretches across the country from
nordi to south, from the Arkansas to die Bed
l^er, separatii^ the upper from the lower prai-
ries, and commonly caJled the << Cross Timber.**
On the skirts of this forest land, just on the ^ge
of a prairie, we found traces of a Pawnee en-
eampment of between one and two hundred
lodges, showing that the party must have been
numerous. The skull of a bufialo lay near the
camp, and the moss which had gathered on it
proved that the encampment was at least a year
^. About half a mile off we encamped in a
beautiful grove, watered by a fine spring and
rivnlet Our dia/s journey had been about four-
teen miles.
In the course of the afternoon we were re*
joined by two of Lieutenant King's party, which
we had left behind a few days before, to look
after stray horses. All the horses had be^i
found, though some had wandered to the distance
of several miles. The lieutenant, with seven-
teen of lus companions, had remained at our ^^
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A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 119
n^hfs encampment to hunt, having come upon
recent traces of buffalo. They had also seen a
fine wild horse, which, however, bad galloped off
with a speed that defied pursuit.
Confident anticipations were now indulged
that on the following day we should meet with
buffalo, and perhaps with wild horses, and every
one was in spirits. We needed some excitement
of the kind, for our young men were growing
weary of marching and encamping under restraint,
and provisions this day were scanty. The Gap«
tain and several of the rangers went out hunt-
ing, but brought home nothing but a small deer
and a few turkeys. Our two men, Beatte and
Tonish, likewise went out The former returned
with a deer athwart his horse, which, as usual,
he laid down by our lodge, and said nothing.
Tonish returned with no game, but with his cus->
tomary budget of wonderM tales. Both he and
the deer had done marvels. Not one had come
within the lure of his rifle without being hit in a
mortal part, yet, strange to say, every one had
kept on his way without flinching. We all
determined that, from the accuracy of his aim,
Tonish must have shot with charmed balls, but
that every deer had a charmed life. The most
important intelligence brought by him, however,
was, that he bad seen the firesh tracks of sc^^nU
wild bors^ He now considered himself upon
the eve of great exploits, for there was nothing
apon which he glorified himself more than hit
skill in horse-etching.
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CHAPTER XCL
HUHTIBS' AHTI0IPAXION8.— THB RVQaXD FOBD.— A WILD H0B81.
October 8L
IJHIS morning the camp was in a bustle
at an early hour: the expectation of
falling in with buffalo in the course
day roused every one's spirit There
contmual crackii]^ of rifles, that thej
be reloaded: the shot was drawn off
from double-barrelled guns, and balls were substi-
tuted. Tonish, however, prepared chiefly for a
campaign against wild horses. He took the field,
with a coil of cordage hung at his saddle-bow,
and a couple of white wands, something like
fishing-rods, eight or ten feet in length, with
forked ends. The coil of cordage thus used in
hunting the wild horse is called a lariat, and an-
swers to the lasso of South America. It is not
flung, however, in the graceful and dexterous
Spanish style. The hunter, aHer a hard chase,
when he succeeds in getting almost head and
head with the wild horse, hitches the running
noose of the lariat over his head by means of the
forked stick ; then letting him have the full length
of the cord, plays him like a fish, and chokes him
into subjection.
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIEB. 181
All this Tonish promised to exemplify to our
full satis&ction ; we had not much confidence in
his sncoesSy and feared he might knock up a good
horse in a headlong gallop after a bad one ; for^
like all the French Creoles, he was a merciless
hard rider* It was determined, therefore, to keep
a sharp eye upon him, and to check his sallying
propensities.
We had not proceeded far on our mommg's
march, when we were checked by a deep stream,
running along the bottom of a thickly wooded ra-
Tine. After coasting it for a couple of miles, we
came to a fording-place ; but to get down to it
was the difficulty, for the banks were steep and
crumbling, and overgrown with forest-trees, min*
gled with thickets, brambles, and grape-vines. At
length the leading horseman broke his way through
the thicket, and his horse, putting his feet together,
slid down the black crumbling bank, to the narrow
margin of the stream; then floundering across,
with mud and water up to the saddle-girths, lie
scrambled up the opposite bank, and arrived
safe on level ground. The whole line followed
pell-mell after the leader, and pushing forward in
dose order, Indian file, they crowded each other
down the bank and into the stream. Some of
the horsemen missed the ford, and were soused
over head and ears ; one was unhorsed, and
plumped head foremost into the middle of the
stream : for ray own part, while pressed forward,
and hurried over the bank by those beliind me, I
was interrupted by a grape-vine, as thick as a
cable, which hung in a festoon as low as the sad-
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^e4)0W, and, dragging me from the saddle, threw
me among the^feet of the tramplmg horses. Foiv
tnnately, I escaped without injury, regained my
steed, crossed the stream without further difficultji
and was enabled to join in the merriment occa-
sioned bj the ludicrous disasters of the fording.
It is at passes like this that occur the most dan-
gerous ambuscades and sanguinary surprises of
Indian warfare. A party of savages, well placed
among the thickets, might have made sad havoc
among our men, while entangled in the ravine.
We now came out upon a vast and glorious
prairie, spreading out beneath the gtdden beams
of an autumnal sun. The deep and frequent
traces of buffalo showed it to be one of their
fi9tvorite grazing groimds ; yet none were to be
seen. In the course of the morning we were
overtaken by. the lieutenant and seventeen men,
who had remained behind, and who came laden
with the spoils of bufi&loes ; having killed three
on the preceding day. One of the rangers, how-
ever, had little luck to boast of, his horse hav-
ing taken fright at sight of Ihe buffaloes, thrown
his rider, and escaped into the woods.
The excitement of our hunters, both young and
old, now rose almost to fever-height, scarce any
of them having ever encountered any of this far-
fiuned game of the prairies. Aceordii^ly, when
in the course of the day the cry of buffalo I
buffalo I rose from one part of the line, the whole
ttooup were thrown in agitation. We were just
then passing through a beautiful part of the prai-
rk, finely diversified by hills and slopes, and
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woody dells, and high, stately groTes. Those who
had given the alarm pointed out a large black-
looking animal, slowly moving along the side of
a rising ground, about two miles off. The ever-
ready Tonish jumped up, and stood with his feet
cm the saddle, and his forked sticks in his hands,
like a posture-master or scaramouch at a circus,
just ready for a feat of horsemanship. After
gazing at the animal for a moment, which he
could liave seen full as well without rising from
his stirrups, he pronounced it a wild horse ; and
dropping again into his saddle, was about to dash
off full tilt in pursuit, when, to his inexpressible
diagrin, he was called back, and ordered to keep
to his post, in rear of the baggage horses.
The Captain and two of his officers now set
off to reconnoitre the game. It was the intention
of the Captain, who was an admirable marksman,
to endeavor to crease the horse, that is to say,
to hit him with a rifle-ball in the ridge of the
neck. A wound of this kind paralyzes a horse
fi>r a momei|t ; he &l11s to the ground, and may
be secured before he recovers. It is a cruel es^-
pedient, however, for an ill-directed shot may
kill or maim the noble animaL
As the Captain and his companions moved off
laterally and slowly in the direction of the horse,
we continued our course forward ; watching in-
tently, however, the movements of the game.
The horse moved quietly over the profile of the
rising ground, and disappeared behind it. The
Qytain and his party were likewise soon hidden
by an intervening hilL
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After a time, the horse suddenly made his
iq)pearance to our right, just ahead of the liDe,
emerging (^t of a small valley, on a brisk trot ;
having evidently taken the alarm. At sight of
us, he stopped short, gazed at us for an instant
with surprise, then tossing up his head, trotted
off in fine style, glancing at us first over one
shoulder, then over the other, his ample mane and
tail streaming in the wind. Having dashed
through a skirt of thicket, that looked like a
hedge-row, he paused in the open field beyond,
glanced back at us again, with a beautiful bend
of the neck, snuffed the air, and then tossing his
head again, broke into a gallop, and took r^uge
in a wood.
It was the first time I had ever seen a horse
scouring his native wilderness in all the pride and
freedom of his nature. How different from the
poor, mutilated, harnessed, checked, reined-up
victim of luxury, caprice, and avarice, in our
cities!
After travelling about fifteen miles, we en*
camped about one o'clock, that our hunters might
have time to procure a supply of provisions. Our
encampment was in a spacious grove of lofly
oaks and walnuts, free fix)m underwood, on the
border of a brook. While unloading the pack*
horses, our little Frenchman was loud in his com-
plaints at having been prevented from pursuing
the wild horse, which he would certainly have
taken. In the mean time, I saw our half-breed,
Beatte, quietly saddle his best horse, a powerful
steed of a half-savage race, hang a lariat at the
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126
saddle-bow, take a rifle and forked stick in hand,
and, mounting, depart from the camp without
saying a word. It was evident he was going off
in quest of the wild horse, but was disposed to
bunt alone.
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THE OAMP OV THE WILD HORSB.
EUimBBS 8T0BXXS.— HABITS OF THB ^HLD H0S8I.— IHB HAUF-BBOD
ANA HIS PBIZI. —A H0B8B-CHASB. —A WILD SPIBIT XAIOD.
IE had encamped in a good neighborhood
for game, as the reports of rifles in va-
rious directions speedily gave notice.
One of our hunters soon returned with the meat
of a doe, tied up in the skin, and slung across
his shoulders. Another brought a fat buck across
his horse. Two other deer were brought in, and
a number of turkeys. All the game was thrown
down in front of the Captain^s fire, to be portioned
out among the various messes. The spits and
camp - kettles were soon in full employ, and
throughout the evening there was a scene of
hunters' feasting and profusion.
We had been disappointed this day in our
hopes of meeting with buffalo, but the sight of
the wild horse had been a great novelty, and
gave a turn to the conversation of the camp for
the evening. There were several anecdotes told
of a famous gray horse, which has ranged the
prairies of this neighborhood for six or seven
years, setting at naught every attempt of the
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Jmnters to capture hii^. They say he csax pao^
and rack (or amble) faster than the fleetest horsey
4»n run. Equally marvellous accounts were
given of a black horse on the Brasses, who grazed
the prairies on that river's banks in the Texas.
For years he outstripped all pursuit. His fame
spread far and wide; offers were made for him
to the amount of a thousand dqllars ; the boldest
and most hard-riding hunters tried incessantly to
make prize of him, but in vain. At length he
&11 a victim to his gallantry, being decoyed un-
der a tree by a tame mare, and a noose dropped
over his head by a boy perched among the
branches. . ;
The capture of the wild h(»^e is one of thq
most &vorite achievements of the prairie tribes;
and, indeed, it is from this source that the In-
dian hunters chiefly supply themselves. The
wild horses -which range those vast grassy plains,
extending from the Arkansas to the Spanish set-
tlements, are of various forms and colors, betray-
ing their various descents. Some resemble the
common English stock, and are probably descended
from horses which have escaped frx)m our border
settlements. Others are of a low but strong
make, and are supposed to be of- the Andalusian
breed, brought out by the Spanish discoverers.
Some fai^ciful speculatists have seen in them
descendants of the Arab stock, brought into Spain
from Africa, and thence transferred to this couur
try; and have pleased themselves with the idea
that their sires may have been of the pur^
coursers of the desert^ that once bore Mahqmel
9
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126 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
and his warlike disciples across the sandy plains
c^ Arabia.
The habits of the Arab seem to hare come
with the steed. The introduction of the horse on
the boundless prairies of the Far West changed
the whole mode of living of their inhabitants. It
gave them that ^ilitj of rapid moti<Mi, and of
sudden and distant change of place, so dear to
the roving propensities of man. Instead of lurk*
ing in the depths of gloomy forests, and patiently
threading the mazes of a tangled wilderness on
foot, like his brethren of the north, the Indian of
the West is'% rover of the plain ; he leads a
brighter and more sunshiny life ; almost always
on horseback, on vast flowery prairies and under
cloudless skies.
I was lying by the Captain's fire, late in the
evening, listening to stories about those oours^v
of the prairies, and weaving speculations of my
own, when there was a elMmnr <^ voices and a
loud cheering at the other end of the camp ; and
word was passed that Beatte, the half-breed, had
brought in a wild horse.
In an instant every fire was deserted; the
whole camp crowded to see the Indian and his
prise. It was a colt about two years old, wefl
grown, finely limbed, with bright prcnninent eyes,
and a spirited yet gentle demeanor. He gazed
about him with an air of mingled stupefisMStion
and surprise, at the men, the luHrses, and the
eamp-fires; while the Indian stood before him
with fidded arms, having hold of Uie other end
of the cord whidi noosed his captive, and gasing
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fxi liim with a most imperturbable aspect Bestfte,
as I have before observed, has a greenish olive
complexioD, with a strongly -marked coontenance,
not tmlike the bronze casts of Napoleon ; and as
he stood before his captive horse, with folded
arms and fixed «^>ect, he looked more like a
statue than a man.
If the horse, however, manifested the least
restiveness, Beatte would immediately worry
him with the lariat, jerkii^ him first on one side,
then on the other, so as almost to throw him on
the ground; when he had thus^ndered him
passive, he would resume his statK-like attitude,
and garo at him in silence.
The whole scene was singularly wild : the tall
grove, partially illumined by the flashing fires of
the camp, the horses tethered here and there
among tlie trees, the carcasses of deer hanging
around, and, in the midst of all, the wild hunts-
man and his wild horse, with an admiring throng
of rangers ahnost as wild.
In the eagerness of tiieir excitement, several
of the young rangers sought to get the horse by
purdiase or barter, and even offered extravagant
terms; but Beatte declined all their offers.
** You give great price now," said he ; " to-mor-
row you be sorry, and take back, and say d — d
Indian!"
The young men importuned him with questions
about the mode in which he took the horse, but
his answers ware dry and laconic ; he evidently
retained some pique at having been undervalued
and sneered at by them ; and at the same timie
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180 CRAYON MISGELLANX. \
looked down upon them with contempt as g'reent
horns little versed in the noble science of woodr
crafl.
Afterwards, however, when he was seated by
our fire, I readilj drew from him an account of
his exploit ; for, though taciturn among strangers,
and little prone to boast of his actions, yet his
lacitumity, like that of all Indians, had its times
of relaxation.
He informed me, that on leaving the camp h0
had returned to the place where we had lost sighv
of the wild h^*se. Soon getting upon its traxsk^
he followed it%> the banks of the river. Here^
the prints being more distinct in the sand, he
perceived that one of the hoo& was broken and
defective, so he gave up the pursuit.
As he was returning to the camp, he came
upon a gang of six horses, which immediately
made for the river. He pursued them across the
stream, left his rifie on the river-bank, and put-
ting his horse to full speed, soon came up with
the fugitives. He attempted to noose one of
them, but the lariat hitched on one of his eara^
and he shook it off. The horses dashed up a hill,
he followed hard at their heels, when^ of a sudden,
he saw their tails whisking in the air, and they
plunging down a precipice. It was too late to
stop. He shut his eyes, held in his breath, and
went over with them — neck or nothing. The
descent was between twenty and thirty feet, but
they all came down safe upon a sandy bottom.
He now succeeded in throwing his noose round
a fine young horse. As he galloped alongside of
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A T013H ON THE PRAIRIES. iW
Idm, the two horses passed each side of a sapling/
and the end of the lariat was jerked out of his
hund. He regained it, but an intervening tree
obliged him again to let it go. Having once
more caught it, and coming to a more open coun-
try, he was enabled to play the young horse with
the line until he gradually checked and subdued
him, so as to lead him to the place where he had
left his rifle.
He had another formidable difficulty in getting
him across the river, where both horses stuck for
a time in the mire, and Beatte was nearly un-
seated from his saddle by the force of the current
and the struggles of his captive. After much
toil and trouble, however, he got across the stream,
and brought his prize safe into camp.
For the remainder of the evening the camp
remained in a high state of excitement ; nothing
was talked of but the capture of wild horses;
every youngster of the troop was for this harum-
scarum kind of chase ; every one promised him-
self to return from the campaign in triumph, be-
striding one of these wild coursers of the prairies.
Beatte had suddenly risen to great importance ;
he was the prime hunter, the hero of the day.
Offers were made him by the best-mounted ran-
gers, to let him ride their horses in the chase, pro-
vided he would give them a share of the spoiL
Beatte bore his honors in silence, and closed with
none of the oflFers. Our stammering, chattering,
gasconading little Frenchman, however, made up
for his taciturnity by vaunting as much upon the
subject as if. it were he that had caught the
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131 CRArON MiaCELlANT.
horse. Indeed he held forth so learnedly in the
matter, and boasted so much of the many horses
he had taken, that he b^an to be considered an
oracle; and some of the youngsters were in-
clined to doubt whether he were not superior even
to the taciturn Beatte.
The excitement kept the camp awake later
than usuaL The hum of voices, interrupted by
occasional peals of laughter, was heard fix>m
the groups around the various fires, and the
night was consideraldy advanced before all had
sunk to sleep.
With the morning dawn the excitement re-
vived, and Beatte and his wild horse were agaia
the gaze and talk of the camp. The captive had
been tied all night to a tree among the other
horses. He was again led forth by Beatte, by
a long halter or lariat, and, on his manifesting the
least restiveness, was, as before, jerked and wot-
ned into passive submission. He appeared to be
gentle and docile by nature, and had a beautiAilly
mild expression of the eye. In his strange and
forlorn situation, the poor animal seemed to sedk
protection and companionship in the very horse
wluch had aided to capture him.
Seeing him thus gentle and tractable, Beatte, just
as we were about to march, strapped a light pack
upon his back, by way of giving him the first lesson
in servitude. The native pride and independence
of the animal took fire at this indignity. He
reared, and plunged, and kicked, and tried in
every way to get rid of the degrading burden*
The Indian was too potent for him. At eveiy
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A TOUR ON THE PRAJRIES, 188
parozjsm he renewed the discipline of the Iialter,
unt3 ^e pcxnr animfd^ driven to despair, threw
himself prostrate on the ground, and lay motion-
less, as if acknowledging himself vanquished. A
stage hero, representing the despair of a captive
prince, could not have played his part more dra-
maticallj. There was absolutely a moral gran-
deur in it.
The imperturbable Beatte folded his arms, and
stood for a time, looking down in silence upon hig
captive ; until seeing him perfectly subdued, he
Bodded his head slowly, screwed his mouth into
a sardonic smile of triumph, and, with a jerk of
the halter, ordered him to rise. He obeyed, and
fix>m that time forward offered no resistance.
Puring that day he bore his pack patiently, and
was led by ihQ halter ; but in two days he fol-
lowed voluntarily at large among the supemur
Bierary horses of the troop.
I could not but look wiUi compassion upoa this
fine young animal, whose whole course of exist-
ence had been so suddenly reversed. From being
a denizenr of these vast pastures, ranging at will
from plaifi to i^ain and mead to mead, cropping
of evary herb and flower, and drinking of every
Stream, he was suddenly reduced to perpetual
and painful servitude, to pass his life under the
harness and the* curb, amid, perhi^s, the din and
dust and drudgery of cities^ The transition in
His lot was such as sometimes takes place in hu-
man affairs, and in the fortunes oi towering indi-
fiduals: — one day, a prince of the pniries —
Aft aext dajy a packrhorse I
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CHAPTER XXL
'im FOEDZKO 07 TEl RKD VOBK. — THB OKSAST 70KB8TB OF TOM " GBOM
TDfBXR." — BU77AL0 !
|E left the camp of the wild horse about a
quarter before eight, and, after steering
nearly south for three or four miles, ar-
rived on the banks of the Red Fork, about sev-
enty-five miles, as we supposed, above its mouth;
'The "river was about three hundred yards wide,
wandering among sand - bars and shoals. Its
shores, and the long sandy banks that stretched
out into the stream, were printed, as usual, with
the traces of various animids that had come down
to cross it, or to drink, its waters.
Here we came to a halt^ and there was much
consultation about the possibility of fording the
river with safety^ as there was an apprehension
of quicksands. Beatte, who had been somewhat
in the rear, came up while we were debating.
He was mounted on his horse of the half-wild
breed, and leading his captive by the bridle. He
gave the latter in charge to Tonish, and without
saying a word, urged his horse into the streamy
and crossed it. in safety. Everything wafi done
by this man in a similar way, promptly, resoliitelyy
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A TOijB ON TEE PRAIRIES. 18^
and 'sileiitlyy without a previous promise or an'
after vaunt.
The troop now followed the lead of Beatte, and
reached the opposite shore without any mishap,
though one of the pack-horses, wandering a little
from the track, came near being swallowed up in
a quicksand, and was with difficulty dragged to
land.
After crossing the river, we had to force our
way for nearly a mile through a thick canebrake,
which, at first sight, appeared an impervious mass
of reeds and brambles. It was a hard struggle ,
our horses were often to the saddle-girths in mire
and water, and both horse and horseman harassed
and torn by bush and brier. Falling, however,
upon a buffido-trac^, we at length extricated our'
selves from this morass, and ascended a ridge of
land, where we beheld a beautiful open country
before us ; while to our right the belt of forest
land, called **The Cross Timber," continued
stretching away to the southward, as far as the
eye could reach. We soon abandoned the open
country, and struck into the forest land. It was
the intention of the Captain to keep on southwest
by south, and traverse the Cross Timber diago-
nally, so as to come out upon the edge of the great
western prairie. By thus maintaining something
of a southerly direction, he trusted, while he
crossed the belt of the forest, he would at the
same time approadi the Bed River.
The plan of the Captain was judicious ; but
he erred from not being informed of the nature
(tf the country. Had he kept directly west, a
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106 CBATON MISCELLANY.
oouple of dajs would have carried us through the
forest laud, aud we might theu have had au eaaiy
oourse along the skirts of the upper prairies^ to
Hed River ; by going diagonally, we were kept
£br many weary days toiling through a dismal se-
ries of rugged forests.
The Cross Timber is about forty miles in'
breadth, and stretches over a rough country of
rolling hills, covered with scattered tracts of
post-oak and black-jack; with some intervening
valleys, which at proper seasons would afford
good pasturage. It is very much cut up by deep
ravines, which in the rainy seasons are the beds
of temporary streams, tributary to the main rivers,
and these are called "branches." The whole
tract may present a pleasant aspect in the fresh
time of the year, when the ground is covered
with herbage ; when the trees are in their green
lea^ and the glens are enlivened by running
streams. Unfortunately, we entered it too late in
the season. The herbage was parched ; the foli-
age of the scrubby forests was withered; the
whole woodland prospect, as &r as the eye could
reach, had a brown and arid hue. The fires
made on the prairies by the Indian hunters, had
frequently penetrated these forests, sweeping in
light transient flames along the dry grass, scorch-
ing and calcining the lower twigs and branches of
the trees, and leaving them black and hard, so as
to tear the flesh of man and horse that had to
scramble through them. I shall not easily forget
the mortal toil, and the vexations of flesh and
^iritj, that we underwent occasiooaUy, in our
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waadterings through the Cross Timber. It was
like struggling through forests of cast iron.
After a tedious ride of several miles, we came
Oi^upon an c^n tract of hill and dale, inter-
spersed with woodland. Here we were roused
bj the cry of buffalo ! bufl[alo ! The effect was
something like that of the ciy of a sail I a sail 1
at sea* It was not a false alarm. Three or
four of those enormous animals were visible
to our si^ty grazing on the slope of a distant
hilL
There was a general movement to set off in
pursuit, and it was with some difficulty that the
▼ivaci^ of the younger men of the troop could
be restrained. Leaving orders that the line of
march should be preserved, the Captain and two
of his officers departed at a quiet pace, aocompar
nied by Beatte and by the ever-forward Tonish ;
fi>r it was impossible any longer to keep the little
Frenchman in check, being half crazy to prove
his skill and prowess in hunting the buffalo.
The intervening hills soon hid from us both
the game and the huntsmen. We kept on our
course in quest of a camping-place, whidi was
difficult to be found ; almost all the channels of
the streams being dry^ and the country being des-
titute of fountain-headsb
Afler proceeding some distance, there was
again a cry of buffido, and two were pointed out
on a hill to the left. The Captain being absent,
it was no longer possible to restrain. the ardor of
the young hunters. Away several of them dashed,
full speed, and soon disappeared among the ra»
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188 CRATON MISCELLAHT.
vines ; the rest kept on, anxious to find a proper
place for encampment.
Indeed we now began to experience the disad-
vantages of the season. The pasturage of the
prairies was scanty and parched, the pearvines
which grew in the woodj bottoms were withered,
and most of the ^branches" or streams were
dried up. While wandering in this perplexity,
we were overtaken by the Captain and all his
party, except Tonish. They had pursued the
buffalo for some distance without getting within
shot, and had ^ven up the chase, being fearM
of fetiguing their horses, or being led off too &r
, from camp. The little Frenchman, however, had
galloped after them at headlong speed, and the
last Uiey saw of him, he was engaged, as it were,
yard-arm and yard-arm, with a great buffalo bull,
firing broadsides into him. ^ I tink dat little man
crazy — somehow," observed Beatte, dryly.
,■1
r
n$^
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CHAPTER XXn.
TBI AT.Aitig CLAICP.
|E now came to alialt, and had to con-
tent ourselves with an mdijOTerent en-
campment It was in a grove of scrub-
oaks, on the borders of a deep ravine, at the bot-
tom of which were a few scanty pools of water.
We were just at the foot of a gradually sloping
iiill, covered with half-withered grass, that afforded
meagre pasturage. In the spot where we had
encamped, the grass was high and parched. The
view around us was circumscribed and much shut
in by gently swelling hills.
Just as we were encamping, Tonish arrived,
all glorious, &om his hunting-match; his white
horse hung all round with buffalo meat. Accord-
ing to his own account, he had laid low two
mighty bulls. As usual, we deducted one half
from his boastings ; but, now that he had some-
thing real to vaunt about, there was no restrain-
ing the valor of his tongue.
Alter having in some measure appeased his
vanity by boasting of his exploit, he informed us
ihat he had observed the fresh track of horses,
which, from various circumstances, he susp^Qted
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140 CSATON MISCELLANY.
to have been made by some roving band of
Pawnees. This caused some little uneasiness.
The young men who had left the line of march
in pursuit of the two buffidoes, had not yet re-
joined us; apprehensions were expressed that
they might be waylaid and attacked. Our vet-
eran hunter, old Byan/ also, immediately on our
halting to encamp, had gone off on fool^ in com-
pany with a young disciple. *^ Dat old man will
have his brains knocked out by de Pawnees yet,"
said Beatte." " He tink he know everyting, but
he don't know Pawnees, anyhow."
Taking his rifle, the Captain repaired on foot
to reconnoitre the country from the naked summit
-of one of the neighboring hills. In the mean time
the horses were hobbled and turned loose to
graze ; and wood was cut, and iires made, to
prepare the evening's repast
Suddenly there was an alarm of fire in the
camp ! The flame from one of the kindling fires
had caught to the tall dry grass : a breeze was
blowing ; there was danger that the camp would
soon be wrapped in a light blaze. ^ Look to the
horses I " cried one ; " drag away the baggage ! "
cried another. ^ Take care of the rifles and
powder-horns ! '' cried a thuil. All was hurry-
scurry and uproar. The horses dashed wildly
about : some of the men snatched away rifles
and powder-horns, others dragged off saddles and
saddle-bags. Meantime, no one thought of quell-
ing the fire, nor indeed knew how to quell it*
Beatte, however, and lus comrades attacked it in
the Indian mode, beating down the edges of the
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A TOVR ON THE PRAIRIEB. 141
fire with blankets and horHe-dothe, and endeavor-
ing to prevent its spreading among the grass ; the
rangers followed their example, and in a little
while the flames were happily qaelled.
The fires were now properly kindled on places
firom which the dry grass had been deared away.
The hones were scattered about a small valleyi
and on the sloping hiUndde, cropping the scanty
herbage. Tonish was preparing a snmptnons
evening^s meal from his bufiyo meat^ promising
us a rich soup and a prime piece of roast beef;
but we were doomed to experience another and
more serious alarm.
There was an indistinct cry from some rangers
<m the summit of the hill, of which we could only
distinguish the words, ^ The horses ! the horses I
get in the horses P
Immediately a clamor of voices arose ; shouts,
questions, replies, were all mingled together, so
that nothing could be clearly understood, and
every one drew his own inference.
^ The Captain has started bufialoes," cried one,
^ and wants horses for the chase." Immediately
a number of rangers seized their rifles, and scam-
pered for the hiU-top. ^The prairie is on fire
beycmd the hill,'' cried another ; ^ I see the smc^e
— the Captain means we shall drive the horses
beyond tho brook."
By this time a ranger from the hill had reached
the skirts of the camp. He was almost breath-
less, and could only say that the Captain had
•aen Indians at a distance.
^Pawnees I Pawnees I" was now the cry
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:142 CRAYON mStJELLANT. .
among our wild-headed youngsters. . ** Drive the
horses into the camp I ^ cried one. '^ Saddle the
horses ! " cried another. " Form the line ! '* cried
a third. There was now a scene of clamor and
confusion that baffles all description. The rangers
were scampering about the adjacent field in pur-
suit of their horses. One might be seen tugging
his steed along by a halter ; another wi&out a
hat, riding bare-backed ; another driving a hob-
bled horse before him, that made awkward leaps
like a kangaroo.
The alarm increased. Word was brought from
the lower end of the camp that there was a band
of Pawnees in a neighboring valley. They had
shot old Byan through the head, and were chas-
ing his companion. <^ No, it was not old Byan
that was killed — it was one of the hunters that
had been after the two buffaloes." ^< There are
three hundred Pawnees just beyond the hilV
cried one voice. ^ More, more I " cried another.
Our situation, shut in among hills, prevented
our seeing to any distance, and left us a prey to
all these rumors. A cruel enemy was supposed
to be at hand, and an immediate attack appre-
hended. The horses by this time were driven
into the camp, and were dashing about among the
fires, and trampling upon the baggage. Every
one endeavored to prepare for action ; but here
was the perplexity. During the late alarm of
fire, the saddles, bridles, rifles, powder-horns,
and other equipments, had been snatched out oi
their places, and thrown helter-skelter among the
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIE&. 143
** Where is my saddle?" cried oue. "Has
any one seen my rifle ? " cried another. " Who
will lend me a ball ? " cried a third, who was load-
ing his piece. "I have lost my bullet-pouch."
" For Grod's sake, help me to girth this horse ! "
cried another ; " he 's so restive I can do nothing
with him." In his hurry and worry, he had put
on the saddle the hind part before I
Some affected to swagger and talk bold ; oth-
ers said nothing, but went on steadily, preparing
their horses and weapons, and on these! felt
the most reliance. Some were evidently excited
and elated with the idea of an encounter with
Indians ; and none more so than my young Swiss
fellow-traveller, who had a passion for wild ad-
venture. Our man, Beatte, led his horses in the
rear of the camp, placed his rifle against a tree,
then seated himself by the fire in perfect silence.
On the other hand, little Tonish, who was busy
cooking, stopped every moment from his work to
play the fanfaron, singing, swearing, and affecting
an unusual hilarity, which made me strongly sus-
pect that there was some little fright at bottom,
to cause all this effervescence.
About a dozen of the rangers, as soon as they
could saddle their horses, dashed off in the direc-
tion in which the Pawnees were said to have at-
tacked the hunters. It was now determined, in
case our camp should be assailed, to put our horses
in the ravine in rear, where they would be out
of danger from arrow or rifle-ball, and to take
our stand within the edge of the ravine. This
would serve as a trench, and the trees ai^d thick*
10
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144 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
ets with which it was bordered would be suffi*
cient to turn aside anj shail of the enemj. The
Pawnees, beside, are wary of attacking any cov-
ert of the kind ; their warfare, as' I have already
observed, Ues in the open prairie, where, mounted
upon their fleet horses, they can swoop like hawks
upon their enemy, or wheel about him and dis*
charge their arrows. Still I could not but per-
ceive, that, in case of being attacked by such a
number of these well-mounted and warlike sav-
ages as were said to be at hand, we should be
exposed to considerable risk from the inexperi-
ence' and want of discipline of our newly-raised
rangers, and from the very courage of many of
the younger ones who seemed bent on adventure
and exploit
By this time the Captain reached the camp,
and every one crowded round him for informa-
tion. He informed us that he had proceeded
some distance on his reconnoitring expedition, and
was slowly returning towards the camp, along the
brow of a naked hill, when he saw something on
the edge of a parallel hill, that looked like a man.
He paused, and watched it ; but it remained so
perfectly motionless, that he supposed it a bush,
or the top of some tree beyond the hill. He re-
sumed his course, when it likewise began to move
in a parallel direction. Another form now rose
beside it, of some one who had either been lying
down, or had just ascended the other side of the
hilL The Captain stopped and regarded them;
they likewise stopped. He then lay down upon
Hie grass, and they began to walk. On his lis-
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A TOVR ON THE PRAIRIES, 145
ing, they again stopped, as if watching him
Sjiowing that the Indians are apt to have their
spies and sentinels thus posted on the summit of
naked hills, commanding extensive prospects, his
doubts were increased bj the suspicions move-
ments of these men. He now put his foraging-
cap on the end of his rifle, and waved it in the
air. They took no notice of the signal. He
then walked on, until he entered the edge of a
wood, which concealed him from their view.
Stopping out of sight for a moment, he again
looked forth, when he saw the two men passing
swiftly forward. As the hill on which l^ey were
walking made a curve toward that on which he
stood, it seemed as if they were endeavoring to
head him before he should reach the camp. Doubt-
ing whether they might not belong to some large
party of Indians, either in ambush or moving
along the valley beyond the hill, the Captain hast-
ened' his steps homeward, and, descrying some
rangers on an eminence between him and the
camp, he called out to them to pass the word to
have the horses driven in, as these are genenJly
the first objects of Indian depredation.
Such was the origin of the alarm which had
thrown the camp in commotion. Some <^ those
who heard the Captain's narration, had no doubt
that the men on the hill were Pawnee scouts, be-
longing to the band that had waylaid the hunters.
Distant shots were heard at intervals, which were
supposed to be fired by those who had sallied out
to rescue their comrades. Several more rangers,
having completed their 3quipments, now rode
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146 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
forth in the direction of the firing ; others looked
anxious and uneasy.
" If they are as numerous as they are said to
be," said one, " and as well mounted as they gen-
erally are, we shall be a bad match for them with
our jaded horses."
"Well," replied the Captain, "we have a
strong encampment, and can stand a siege."
" Ay, but they may set fire to the prairie in
the night, and bum us out of our encampment"
" We will then set up a counter-fire I "
The word was now passed that a man on horse-
back approached the camp.
" It is one of the hunters I It is Clements I
He brings buffalo meat I " was announced by sev-
eral voices as the horseman drew near.
It was, in fact, one of the rangers who had set
off in the morning in pursuit of the two buffaloes.
He rode into the camp, with the spoils of the
chase hanging round his horse, and followed by
his companions, all sound and unharmed, and
equally well laden. They proceeded to give an
account of a grand gallop they had had after the
two buffaloes, and how many shots it had cost
them to bring one to the ground.
"Well, but the Pawnees — the Pawnees-—
where are the Pawnees ? "
« What Pawnees ? "
" The Pawnees that attacked you."
" No one attacked us."
" But have you seen no Indians on your way ? *
" Oh, yes ; two of us got to the top of a hill
to look out for the camp, and saw a fellow on aa
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A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIEB. 147
opposite hill cutting queer antics, who seemed to
be an Indian.'^
" Pshaw ! that was I ! " said the Captain.
Here the bubble burst. The whole alarm had
risen &om this mutual mistake of the Captain
and the two rangers. As to the report of the
three hundred Pawnees and their attack on the
hunters, it proved to be a wanton fabrication, of
which no further notice was taken ; though the
author deserved to have been sought out, and se-
verely punished.
There being no longer any prospect of fighting,
every one now thought of eating ; and here the
stomachs throughout the camp were in unison.
Tonish served up to us his promised regale of
buffalo soup and buffalo beef. The soup was pep-
pered most horribly, and the roast beef proved the
bull to have been one of the patriarchs of the
prairies ; never did I have to deal with a tougher
morseL . However, it was our first repast on buf-
fiJo meat : so we ate it with a lively &ith ; nor
would our little Frenchman allow us any rest
until he had extorted from us an acknowledgment
of the excellence of his cookery ; though the
pepper gave us the lie in our throats.
The night closed in without the return of old
Ryan and his companion. We had become ac-
customed, however, to the aberrations of this old
cock of the woods, and no further solicitude was
expressed on his account.
After the fatigues and agitations of the day,
the camp soon sunk into a profound sleep, except-
ing those on guard, who were more than usually
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148 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
on the alert; for the traces recently seen of
Pawnees, and the certainty that we were m the
midst of their hunting-grounds, excited to con-
stant vigilance. About half past ten o'clock we
were all startled from sleep by a new alarm. A
sentinel had fired off his rifie and run into camp,
crying that there were Indians at hand.
Every one was on his legs in an instant.
Some seized their rifles ; some were about to
saddle their horses ; some hastened to the Cap-
tain's lodge, but were ordered back to their re-
spective fires. The sentinel was examined. He
declared he had seen an Indian approach, crawl-
ing along the ground, whereupon he had fired
upon him, and run into camp. The Captain
gave it as his opinion that the supposed Indian
was a wolf; he reprimanded the sentinel for de-
serting his post, and obliged him to return to it.
Many seemed inclined to give credit to the story
of the sentinel; for the events of the day had
predisposed them to apprehend lurking foes and
sudden assaults during the darkness of the night.
For a long time they sat round their fire^ with
rifle in hand, carrying on low, murmuring con-
versations, and listening for some new alarm.
Nothing further, however, occurred; the voices
gradually died away ; the gossipers nodded and
dozed, and sunk to rest ; and, by degrees, silence
and sleep once more stole over the camp.
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CHAPTER XXnL
BIATB& BAH. — BUFFALO AND HOBSK TRAOKS. — A PAWKU TRAIL.-—
was HOBSSS.— THB TOUKO- HUlfTaE JOth TBI BBAB. — OHAHOI Of
Boon.
mustering our forces in the morning,
(Oct. 23,) old Ryan and his comrade
were still missing; but the Captain
had such perfect reliance on the skill and re-
sources of the veteran woodsman, that he did not
think it necessary to take any measures with re-
spect to him.
Our march this day lay through the same kind
of rough roUing country; checkered by brown
dreary forests of post-oak, and cut up by deep
dry ravines. The distant fires were evidently in-
creasing on the prairies. The wind had been at
northwest for several days ; and the atmosphere
had become so smoky, as in the height of Indian
summer, that it was difficult to distinguish ob-
jects at any distance.
In the course of the morning we crossed a
deep stream with a complete beaver dam, above
three feet high, making a large pond, and doubt*
less containing several £gimilies of that industrious
animal, though not one showed His nose above
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160 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
water. The Captain would not permit this am-
phibious commonwealth to be disturbed.
We were now continually coming upon the
tracks of buffaloes and wild horses ; those of the
former tended invariably to the south, as we
could perceive by the direction of the trampled
grass. It was evident we were on the great
highway of these migratory herds, but that they
had chiefly passed to the southward.
Beatte, who generally kept a parallel course
several hundred yards distant from our line of
march, to be on the look-out for game, and who
regarded every track with the knowing eye of
an Indian, reported that he had come upon a very
suspicious trail. There were the tracks of men
who wore Pawnee moccasons. He had scented
the smoke of mingled sumach and tobacco, such
as the Indians use. He had observed tracks of
horses, mingled with those of a dog ; and a mark
in the dust where a cord had been trailed along ;
probably the long bridle, one end of which the
Indian horsemen suffer to trail on the ground.
It was evident, they were not the tracks of wild
horses. My anxiety began to revive about the
safety of our veteran hunter Ryan, for I had
taken a great fancy to this real old Leatherstock-
ing ; every one expressed a confidence, however,
that, wherever Ryan was, he was safe, and knew
how to take care of himself.
We had accomplished the greater part of a
weary day's march, and were passing through a
glade of the oak openings, when we came in sight
of six wild horses, among which I especially no-
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A TOUR ON THE PSAIEISS. 151
ticed two very handsome ones, a gray and a roan.
They pranced about, with heads erect, and long
flaunting tails, offering a proud contrast to our
poor, spiritless, travel-tired steeds. Having rec-
onnoitred us for a moment, they set off at a gal-
lop, passed through a woody dingle, and in a little
while emerged once more to view, trotting up a
slope about a mile distant
The sight of these horses was again a sore
trial to the vaporing Tonish, who had his lariat
and forked stick ready, and was on the point of
launching forth in pursuit, on his jaded horse,
when he was again ordered back to the pack-
horses.
After a day's journey of fourteen miles in a
southwest direction, we encamped on the banks
of a small clear stream, on the northern border of
the Cross Timbers, and on the edge of those
vast prairies that extend away to the foot of the
Bocky Mountains. In turning loose the horses
to graze, their bells were stuffed with grass to
prevent their tinkling, lest it might be heard by
some wandering horde of Pawnees.
Our hunters now went out in different directions,
but without much success, as but one deer was
brought into the camp. A young ranger had a
long story to teU of his adventures. In skirting the
thickets of a deep ravine he had wounded a buck,
which he plainly heard to fall among the bushes.
He stopped to &x. the lock of his rifle, which was
out of order, and to reload it ; then advancing to
the edge of the thicket, in quest of his game, he
heard a low growling. Putting the branches
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152 CRAYON MI8CELLANT.
aside, and stealing silcntlj forward, he looked
down into* the raving and beheld a huge bear
dragging the carcass of the deer along the dry
channel of a brook, and growling and snarling at
four or five officious wolves, who seemed to have
dropped in to take supper with him.
The ranger fired at the bear, but missed him.
Bruin maintained his ground and his prize, and
seemed disposed to make battle. The wolves,
too, who were evidently sharp set, drew off to but
a small distance. As night was coming on, the
young hunter felt dismayed at the wildness and
darkness of the place, and the strange company
he had fallen in with ; so he quietly withdrew,
and returned empty-handed to the camp, where,
having told his story, he was heartily bantered
by his more experienced comrades.
In the course of the evening, old Byan came
straggling into the camp, followed by his disciple,
and as usual was received with hearty gratulations*
He had lost himself yesterday, when hunting, and
camped out all nighty but had found our trail in
the morning, and followed it up. He had passed
some time at the beaver dam, admiring the skill
and solidity with which it had been constructed.
" These beavers," said he, " are industrious little
fellows. They are the knowingest varment as I
know; and I'll warrant the pond was stocked
with them."
"Aye," said the Captain, "I have no doubt
most of the small rivers we have passed are full
of beaver. I would like to come and ^ap on
these waters all winter."
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A TOUR ON THE PRAI&IES.^ 168
** But would you not run the chance of being
attacked by Indians ? " asked one of the com*
pany.
'^ Oh, as to that, it would be safe enough here,
in the winter-time. There would be no Indians
here until spring. I should want no more than
two companions. Three persons are safer than a
large number for trapping beaver. ' They can
keep quiet, and need seldom fire a gun. A bear
would serve them for food for t^o months, taking
care to turn every part of it to advantage."
A consultation was now held as to our future
progress. We had thus fer pursued a western
course, and, having traversed the Cross Timber,
were on the skirts of the Great Western Prairie.
We were still, however, in a very rough country,
where food was scarce. The season was so far
advanced that the grass was withered, and the
prairies yielded no pasturage. The pea-vines of
the bottoms, also, which had sustained our horses
for some part of the journey, were nearly gone,
and for several days past the poor animals had
^en off wofully both in flesh and spirit The In-
dian fires on the prairies were approaching us from
north and south and west; they might spread
also from the east, and leave a scorched desert be-
tween us and the fix)ntier, in which our horses
might be famished.
It was determined, therefore, to advance no
further to the westward, but to shape our course
more to the east, so as to strike the north fork
of the Canadian as soon as possible, where we
hoped to find abundance of young cane ; which.
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154
CBATOli MISCELLANY.
at this season of the year, affords the most nutri-
tious pasturage for tiie horses, and at the same
time attracts immense quantities of game. Here
then we fixed the limits of our tour to the Far
West, being within little more than a daj^s march
of the boundary line of Texas.
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CHAPTER XXIV.
SOABOITT OP BUAS. — BXKOOFmB 1PITH BUTFALOXS. — WILD TUBKXTS
VALL OV A BUFPALO BULL.
HEEE momiDg broke bright and clear, but
the camp had nothing of its usual gaj-
ety. The concert of the farm-yard was
at an end; not a cock crew, nor dog barked ; nor
was there either singing or laughing ; every one
pursued his avocations quietly and gravely. The
novelty of the expedition was wearing off. Some
of the yoimg men were getting as wayworn as
their horses; and most of them, imaccustomed
to the hunter^s life, began to repine at its priva-
tions. What they most felt was the want of
bread, their rations of flour having been exhausted
for several days. The old hunters, who had oflen
experienced this want, made light of it ; and Beatte,
accustomed when among the Indians to live for
months without it, considered it a mere article
of luxury. ** Bread," he would say scornfully,
"is only fit for a child.**
About a quarter before eight o'clock we turned
our backs upon the Far West, and set off in a
southeast course, along a gentle valley. After
riding a few miles, Beatte, who kept parallel with
08, along the ridge of a naked hill to our rights
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156 CBA70N MISCELLANY.
called out and made signals, as if something wero
ooming round the hill to intercept us. Some,
who were near me, cried out that it was a party
of Pawnees. A skirt of thickets hid the approach
of the supposed enemy from our view. We heard
a trampling among the brushwood. My horse
looked toward the place, snorted and pricked up
his ears, when presently a couple of large huge
buffalo bulls, who had been alarmed by Beatte,
came crashing through the brake, and making di«
rectly towards us. At sight of us they wheeled
round, and scuttled along a narrow defile of the
bill. In an instant half a score of rifles cracked
off; there was a universal whoop and halloo, and
away went half the troop, helter-skelter in pursuit,
and myself among the number. The most of us
fKX)n pulled up, and gave over a chase which led
through birch and brier, and break-neck ravines.
Some few of the rangers persisted for a time ;
but eventually joined the line, slowly lagging one
after another. One of them returned on foot ; he
had been thrown while in full chase ; his rifle
had been broken in the fall, and his horse, retain-
ing the spirit of the rider, had kept on after the
buffalo. It was a melancholy predicament to be
reduced to, without horse or weapon in the midst
of the Pawnee hunting-grounds.
For my own part, I had been fortunate enough
recently, by a further exchange, to get possession
of the best horse in the troop ; a full-blooded sor-
rel of excellent bottom, beautiful form, and most
generous qualities.
In such a situation, it almost seems as if a man
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A TOVR ON THE PRAIRIES. 157
dianges his nature with his horse. I felt quite
like another being, now that I had an animal un-
der me, spirited yet gentle, docile to a remarkable
degree, and easy, elastic, and rapid in all his
movements. In a few days he became almost as
much attached to me as a dog; would follow me
when I dismoimted, would come to me in the
morning to be noticed and caressed ; and would
put his muzzle between me and my book, as I
sat reading at the foot of a tree. The feeling I
had for this my dumb companion of the prairies
gave me some faint idea of that attachment the
Arab is said to entertain for the horse that has
borne him about the deserts.
After riding a few miles further, we came to a
fine meadow with a broad dear stream winding
throu^ it, on the banks of which there was ex-
cellent pasturage. Here we at once came to a
halt, in a beautiftil grove of elms, on the site of
an old Osage encampment. Scarcely had we
dismounted, when a imive^sal firing of rifies took
place upon a large flock of turkeys, scattered
about the grove, which proved to be a favorite
roosting-place for these simple birds. They flew
to the trees, and sat perched upon their branches,
stretching out their long necks, and gazing in
Stupid astonishment, until eighteen of them were
shot down.
Iq the height of the carnage, word was brought
that there were four buffaloes in a neighboring
meadow. The tuAeys were now abandoned for
nobler game. The tired horses were again
mounted, and urged to the chase. In a little
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158 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
while we came in sight of the buffaloes, looking^
like brown hillocks among the long green herb*
age. Beatte endeavored to get ahead of them
and turn them towards us, that the inexperienced
himters might have a chance. They ran round
the base of a rocky hill, that hid us from the
sight. Some of us endeavored to cut across the
hill, but became entrapped in a thick wood matted
with grape-vines. My horse, who under his
former rider had hunted the buffalo, seemed as
much excited as myself, and endeavored to force
his way through the bushes. At length we ex-
tricated ourselves, and galloping over the hill, I
found our little Frenchman Tonish curvetting on
horseback round a great buffalo which he had
wounded too severely to fly, and which he was
keeping employed until we should come up.
There was a mixture of the grand and the comic
in beholding this tremendous animal and his fan-
tastic assailant The bu^alo stood with his
shagged front always presented to his foe; his
mouth open, his tongue parched, his eyes like
coals of fire, and his tail erect with rage ; every
now and then he would make a faint rush
upon his foe, who easily evaded his attack, ca-
pering and cutting all kinds of antics before him.
We now made repeated shots at the buffalo,
but they glanced into his mountain of flesh with-
out proving mortal. He made a slow and grand
retreat into the shallow river, turning upon his
assailants whenever they pressed upon him ; and
when in the water, took his stand there as if
prepared to sustain a siege. A rifle-ball, how
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 159
erer, more fatally lodged, sent a tremor through
his fi*ame. He turned and attempted to wade
across the stream, but after tottering a few paces,
slowly fell upon his side and expired. It was
the ^aH of a hero, and we felt somewhat ashamed
of the butchery that had effected it ; but, after
the first shot or two, we had reconciled it to our
feelings, by the old plea of putting the poor ani-
mal out of his misery.
Two other buffaloes were killed this evening,
but they were all bulls, the flesh of which is mea-
gre and hard at this season of the year. A &t
buck yielded u^ more savory meat for our even-
ing's repast
11
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CHAPTER XXV.
Bnranio thx wild hobsi.
|E left the buffalo -camp about eight
o'clock, and had a toilsome and harassing
march of two hours, over ridges of hills,
covered with a ragged meagre forest of scrub-oaks,
and broken bj deep gullies. Among the oaks I
observed many of the most diminutive size ; some
not above a foot high, yet bearing abundance of
small acorns. The whole of the Cross Timber,
in fact, abounds with mast. There is a pine-oak
which produces an acorn pleasant to the taste, and
ripening early in the season.
About ten o'clock in the morning we came to
where this line of rugged hills swept down into a
valley, through which flowed the north fork of
the Red River. A beautiful meadow about half
a mile wide, enamelled with yellow autumnal
flowers, stretched for two or three miles along
the foot of the hills, bordered on the opposite side
by the river, whose banks were fringed with cot-
ton-wood trees, the bright foliage of which re-
freshed and delighted the eye, after being wearied
by the contemplation of monotonous wastes of
brown forest.
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 161
The meadow was finely diversified by groves
and clumps of trees, so happily dispersed, that
they seemed as if set out by the hand of art. As
we cast our eyes over this fresh and delightful
valley, we beheld a troop of wild horses, quietly
grazing on a green lawn, about a mile distant to
our right, while to our left, at nearly the same
distance, were several buffaloes, — some feeding,
others reposing and ruminating among the high
rich herbage, under the shade of a clump of cot-
ton-wood trees. The whole had the appearance
of a broad beautiful tract of pasture-land, on the
highly ornamented estate of some gentleman
farmer, with his cattle grazing about the lawns
and meadows.
A council of war was now held, and it was de-
termined to profit by the present favorable oppor-
tunity, and try our hand at the grand hunting
manoeuvre, which is called ringing the wild horse.
This requires a large party of horsemen, well
mounted. They extend themselves in each di-
rection, singly, at certain distances apart, and
gradually form a ring of two or three miles in
circumference, so as to surround the game. This
has to be done with extreme care, for the wild
horse is the most readily alarmed inhabitant of
the prairie, and can scent a hunter at a great dis-
tance, if to windward.
The ring being formed, two or three ride
towards the horses, who start off in an opposite
direction. Whenever they approach the bounds
of the ring, however, a huntsman presents him-
self and turns them from their course. In this
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162 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
way they are checked and driven back at every
point ; and kept galloping round and round this
magic circle, until, being completely tired down, it
is easy for the hunters to ride up beside them, and
throw the lariat over their heads. The prime horses
of most speed, courage, and bottom, however, are
apt to break through and escape, so that, in gen-
eral, it is the second-rate horses that are taken.
Preparations were now made for a hunt of the
kind. The pack-horses were taken into the woods
and firmly tied to trees, lest, in a rush of the
wild horses, they should break away with them.
Twenty-five men were then sent, under the com-
mand of a lieutenant, to steal along the edge of
the valley within the strip of wood that skirted
the hills. They were to station themselves about
^j yards apart, within the edge of the woods,
and not advance or show themselves until the
horses dashed in that direction. Twenty-five
men were sent across the valley, to steal in like
manner along the river-bank that bordered the
opposite side, and to station themselves among the
trees. A third party, of about the same number,
was to form a line stretching across the lower
part of the valley, so as to connect the two wings.
Beatte and our other half-breed Antoine, together
with the ever-officious Tonish, were to make a
circuit through the woods, so as to get to the up-
per part of the valley, in the rear of the horses,
and to drive them forward into the kind of sack
that we had formed, while the two wings should
join behind them and make a complete circle.
The flanking parties were quietly extending
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 163
themselves, out of sight, on each side of the val-
ley, and the residue were stretching themselves^
like the links of a chain, across it, when the wild
horses gave signs that they scented an enemy ;
snufHng the air, snorting, and looking ahout At
length they pranced off slowly toward the river,
and disappeared behind a green bank. Here, had
the regulations of the chase been observed, they
would have been quietly checked and turned back
by the advance of a hunter from among the trees ;
unluckily, however, we had our wildfire Jack-o'-
lantern little Frenchman to deal with. Instead
of keeping quietly up the right side of the valley,
to get above the horses, the moment he saw them
move toward the river he broke out of the covert
of woods, and dashed furiously across the plain in
pursuit of them, being mounted on one of the led
horses belonging to the Count. This put an end
to all system. The half-breeds and half a score
of rangers joined in the chase. Away they all
went over the green bank ; in a moment or two
the wild horses reappeared, and came thundering
down the valley, with Frenchman, half-breeds,
and rangers galloping and yelling like devils be-
hind them. It was in vain that the line drawn
across the valley attempted to check and turn
back the fiigitives. They were too hotly pressed
by their pursuers ; in their panic they dashed
through the line, and clattered down the plain.
The whole troop joined in the headlong chase,
some of the rangers without hats or caps, their
hair flying about their ears ; others with handker-
clue& tied round theur heads. The buffaloes, who
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164 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
had been calmly ruminating among the herbage^
heaved up their huge forms, gazed for a moment
with astonishment at the tempest that came scour-
ing down the meadow, then turned and took to
heavy-rolling flight. They were soon overtaken :
the promiscuous throng were pressed together by
the contracting sides of the valley, and away they
went, pell-mell, hurry-scurry, wild buffalo, wild
horse, wild huntsman, with clang and clatter, and
whoop and halloo, that made the forests ring.
At length the buffaloes turned into a green
brake on the river-bank, while the horses dashed
up a narrow defile of the hills, with their pursuers
close at their heels. Beatte passed several of them,
having fixed his eye upon a fine Pawnee horse,
that had his ears slit, and saddle-marks upon his
back. He pressed him gallantly, but lost him in
the woods. Among the wild horses was a fine
black mare, far gone with foal. In scrambling up
the defile, she tripped and fell. A young ranger
sprang £rom his horse, and seized her by the
mane and muzzle. Another ranger dismounted,
and came to his assistance. The mare struggled
fiercely, kicking and biting, and striking with her
fore-feet ; but a noose was slipped over her head,
and her struggles were in vain. It was some
tame, however, before she gave over rearing and
plunging, and lashing out with her feet on every
side. The two rangers then led her along th«
valley by two long lariats, which enabled them
to keep at a sufficient distance on each side to be
out of the reach of her hoofe ; and whenever she
struck out in one direction, she was jerked in the
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 165
Oilier. In this way her spirit was gradually sub«
dued.
As to little Scaramouch Tonish, who had
maiTed the whole scene by his precipitancy, he
had been more successful than he deserved, hav-
ing managed to catch a beautiful cream-colored
oolt, about seven months old, which had not
strength to keep up with its companions. The
mercurial little Frenchman was beside himself
with exultation. It was amusing to see him with
his prize. The colt would rear and kick, and
struggle to get free, when Tonish would take him
about the neck, wrestle with him, jump on his back,
and cut as many antics as a monkey with a kitten.
Nothing surprised me more, however, than to
witness how soon these poor animals, thus taken
from the unbounded freedom of the prairie, yielded
to the dominion of man. In the course of two
or three days the mare and colt went with the led
horses, and became quite docile.
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1
CHAPTER XXVI.
FOBDINO OF THS KOBTH FOSK. — BBBAST SCENK&T OF THE 0B088 TIU-
BSB.~SOAMPBB OF H0BSB9 IS THB NIGHT. — 08AOB WAS-FABTT. —
XFFECT8 OF A PBAOB HABANGUB. — BUFFALO. — WILD HOBSB.
JESUMING our march, we forded tho
North Fork, a rapid stream, and of a
purity seldom to be found in the rivers
of the prairies. It evidently had its sources in
high land, well supplied with springs. After
crossing the river, we again ascended among hills,
from one of which we had an extensive view over
this belt of cross timber, and a cheerless prospect
it was, — hill beyond hill, forest beyond forest, all
of one sad russet hue, excepting that here and
there aline of green cotton-wood trees, sycamores,
and willows marked the course of some streamlet
through a valley. A procession of buffaloes, mov-
ing slowly up the profile of one of those distant
hills, formed a characteristic object in the savage
scene. To the left;, the eye stretched beyond
this rugged wilderness of hills, and ravines, and
ragged forests, to a prairie about ten miles off, ex-
tending in a clear blue line along the horizon. It
was like looking from among rocks and break-
ers upon a distant tract of tranquil ocean. Un-
luckily, our route did not lie in that direction ; we
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIEa. 167
Btill had to traverse many a wearj mile of the
" cross timber."
We encamped towards eveniug in a vallej, be-
side a scanty pool, under a scattered grove of elms,
the Tipper branches of which were fringed with
tufts of the mystic mistletoe. In the course of
the night, the wild colt whinnied repeatedly ; and
about two hours before day there was a sudden
stampedoj or rush of horses, along the purlieus of
the camp, with a snorting and neighing, and clat-
tering of hoofs, that startled most of the rangers
from their sleep, who listened in silence, imtil the
sound died away like the rushing of a blast. As
usual, the noise was at first attributed to some
party of marauding Indians ; but as the day
dawned, a couple of wild horses were seen in a
neighboring meadow, which scoured off on being
approached. It was now supposed that a gang
of them had dashed through our camp in the m'ght.
A general mustering of our horses took place;
many were found scattered to a considerable dis-
tance, and several were not to be found. The
prints of their hoofe, however, appeared deeply
dinted in the soil, leading off at full speed into
the waste ; and their owners, putting themselves
on tlie trail, set off in weary search of them.
We had a ruddy daybreak, but the morning
gathered up gray and lowering, with indications
of an autumnal storm. We resumed our march
silently and seriously, through a rough and cheer-
less country, from the highest points of which we
could descry large prairies stretching indefinitely
westward. After travelling for two or three
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168 CRAYON iilSCELLANT.
hours, as we were traversing a withered prairie
resembling a great brown heath, wo beheld seven
Osage warriors approaching at a distance. The
sight of any human being in this lonely wilder-
ness was interesting ; it was like speaking a ship
at sea. One of the Indians took the lead of his
companions, and advanced towards us, with head
erect, chest thrown forward, and a free and noble
mien. He was a fine-looking fellow, dressed in
scarlet frock and fringed leggins of deer-skin.
His head was decorated with a white tufl, and he
stepped forward with something of a martial air,
swaying his bow and arrows in one hand. We
held some conversation with him through our in-
terpreter, Beatte, and found that he and his com-
panions had been with the main part of their
tribe hunting the buffalo, and had met with great
success ; and he informed us that in the course
of another day's march we would reach the prai-
ries on the banks of the Grand Canadian, and
find plenty of game. He added, that, as their
hunt was over, and the hunters on their return
homeward, he and his comrades had set out on a
war party, to waylay and hover about some Paw-
nee camp, in hopes of carrying off scalps or horses.
By this time his companions, who at first stood
aloof, joined him. Three of them had indifferent
fowling-pieces; the rest were armed with bows
and arrows. I could not but admire the finely
shaped heads and busts of these savages, and their
gracefrd attitudes and expressive gestures, as they
stood conversing with our interpreter, and sur-
JTounded by a cavalcade of rangers. We endear-
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES, 169
ored to get one of them to join us, as we were
desirous yof seeing him hunt the buffalo with his
bow and arrow. He seemed at first inclined to
do so, but was dissuaded bj his companions.
The worthy Commissioner now remembered
his mission as pacificator, and made a speech, ex-
horting them to abstain from all ofiensive acts
against the Pawnees ; informing them of the plan
of their father at Washington, to put an end to all
war among his red children ; and assuring them
that he was sent to the frontier to establish a uni-
versal peace. He told them, therefore, to return
quietly to their homes, with the certainty that
the Pawnees would no longer molest them, but
would soon regard them as brothers.
The Indians listened to the speech with their
customary silence and decorum ; ailer which, ex-
changing a few words among themselves, they
bade us farewell, and pursued their way across
the prairie.
Fancying that I saw a lurking smile in the
countenance of our interpreter, Beatte, I pri-
vately inquired what the Indians had said to each
other after hearing the speech. The leader, he
said, had observed to his companions, that, as their
great father intended so soon to put an end to all
warfioire, it behooved them to make the most of the
little time that was left them. So they had de-
parted, with redoubled zeal, to pursue their pro-
ject at horse-stealing I
We had not long parted from the Indians before
we discovered three bufialoes among the thickets
rf a marshy valley to our left. I set off with the
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170 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
Captain and several rangers, in pursuit of them.
Stealing through a straggling grove, the Captain,
who took the lead, got within rifle-shot, and
wounded one of them in the flank. Thej all
three made off in headlong panic, through thickets
and brushwood, and swamp and mire, bearing
down every obstacle by their immense weight.
The Captain and rangers soon gave up a chase
which threatened to knock up their horses ; I had
got upon the traces of the wounded bull, however,
and was in hopes of getting near enough to use
my pistols, the only weapons with which I was
provided ; but before I could effect it, he reached
the foot of a rocky hill covered with post-oak and
brambles, and plunged forward, djishing and crash-
ing along, with neck-o^-nothing-fury, where it
would have been madness to have followed him.
The chase had led me so far on one side, that
it was some time before I regedned the trail of
our troop. As I was slowly ascending a hill, a
fine black mare came prancing round the summit,
and was close to me before she was aware. At
sight of me she started back, then turning, swept
at full speed down into the valley, and up the
opposite hill, with flowing mane and tail, and action
&ee as air. I gazed after her as long as she was
in sight, and breathed a wish that so glorious
an animal might never come under the degrad-
ing thraldom of whip and curb, but remain a free
rover of the prairies.
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CHAPTER XXVn.
FOUIrWIATHER IN0AHPMS5T. — ANECDOTES OF BEAB-HUNTma. — INDXAB
FOTIONS ABOUT OMENS. — SCBUPLES BSSPECTINO THE SEAS.
overtaking the troop, I found it encamp-
ing in a rich bottom of woodland, trav-
ersed by a small stream, running between
deep crumbling banks. A sharp cracking off of
rifles was kept up for some time in various direc-
tions, upon a numerous flock of turkeys, scamper-
ing among the thickets, or peipched upon the trees.
We had not been long at a halt, when a drizzling
rain ushered in the autumnal storm that had been
brewing. Preparations were immediately made
to weather it ; our tent was pitched, and our sad-
dles, saddle-bags, packages of coffee, sugar, salt,
and everything else that could be damaged by the
rain, were gathered under its shelter. Our men,
Beatte, Tonish, and Antoine, drove stakes with
forked ends into the ground, laid poles across them
for rafters, and thus made a shed or pent-house,
covered with bark and skins, sloping towards the
wind, and open towards the fire. The rangers
formed similar shelters of bark and skins, or of
blankets stretched on poles, supported by forked
stakes, with great fires in front.
These precautions were well-timed. The win
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172 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
Bet iu sullenly and steadily, and kept ou, with
slight intermissions, for two days. The brook,
which flowed peaceably on our arrival, swelled
into a turbid and boiling torrent, and the forest
became little better than a mere swamp. The
men gathered under their shelters of skins and
blankets, or sat cowering round their fires ; while
columns of smoke curling up among the trees,
and diffusing themselves in the air, spread a blue
haze through the woodland. Our poor, way-worn
horses, reduced by weary travel and scanty pas-
turage, lost all remaining spirit, and stood, with
drooping heads, flagging ears, and half-closed eyes,
• dozing and steaming in the rain ; while the yel-
low autumnal leaves, at every shaking of the
breeze, came wavering down around them.
Notwithstanding the bad weather, however,
our hunters were not idle, but during the inter-
vals of the rain sallied forth on horseback to
prowl through the woodland. Every now and
then the sharp report of a distant rifle boded the
death of a deer. Venison in abundance was
brought in. Some busied themselves under the
sheds, flaying and cutting up the carcasses, or
round the fires with spits and camp-kettles, and a
rude kind of feasting, or rather gormandizing,
prevailed throughout the camp. The axe was
continually at work, and wearied the forest with
its echoes. Crash ! some mighty tree would come
down ; in a few minutes its limbs would be blaz-
ing and crackling on the huge camp-fires, with
some luckless deer roasting before it, that had
once sported beneath its shade.
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 173
The change of weather had taken sharp hold
of our little Frenchman. His meagre frame,
composed of bones and whip-cord, was racked
with rheumatic pains and twinges. He had the
toothache — the earache — his face was tied up
— he had shooting pains in every limb ; yet all
seemed but to increase his restless activity, and he
was in an incessant fidget about the fire, roasting,
and stewing, and groaning, and scolding, and
swearing.
Our man Beatte returned grim and mortified,
from hunting. He had come upon a bear of for-
midable dimensions, and wounded him with a rifle-
shot The bear took to the brook, which was
swollen and rapid. Beatte dashed in after him
and assailed him in the rear with his hunting-
knife. At every blow the bear turned furiously
upon him, with a terrific display of white teeth.
Beatte, having a foothold in the brook, was ena-
bled to push him off with his rifle, and, when he
turned to swim, would flounder after, and attempt
to hamstring hioL The bear, however, succeeded
in scrambling off among the thickets, and Beatte
had to give up the chase.
This adventure, if it produced no game, brought
up at least several anecdotes, round the evening
fire, relative to bear-hunting, in which the grizzly
bear figured conspicuously. This powerful and
ferocious animal is a favorite theme of hunter's
story, both among red and white men ; and his
enormous daws are worn round the neck of an
Indian brave, as a trophy more honorable than a
human scalp. He . is now scarcely seen below
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174 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
the upper prairies, and the skirts of the Eocky
Mountains. Other bears are formidable when
wounded and provoked, but seldom make battle
when allowed to escape. The grizzly bear alone,
of all the animals of our Western wilds, is prone
to unprovoked hostility. His prodigious size and
strength make him a formidable opponent; and
his great tenacity of life often baffles the skill of
the hunter, notwithstanding repeated shots of the
rifle and wounds of the hunting-knife.
One of the anecdotes related on this occasion
gave a picture of the accidents and hard shifts to
which our frontier rovers are inured. A hunter,
while in pursuit of a deer, fell into one of those
deep ftmnel-shaped pits formed on the prairies
by the settling of the waters after heavy rains,
and known by the name of sink-holes. To his
great horror he came in contact, at the bottom,
with a huge grizzly bear. The monster grappled
him ; a de^Ay contest ensued, in which the poor
hunter was severely torn and bitten, and had a
leg and an arm broken, but succeeded in killing
his rugged foe. For several days he remained at
the bottom of the pit, too much crippled to move,
and subsisting on the raw flesh of the bear, dur-
ing which time he kept his wounds open, that
they might heal gradually and effectually. He
was at length enabled to scramble to the top of
the pit, and so out upon the open prairie. With
great difficulty he crawled to a ravine formed by
a stream then nearly dry. Here he took a deli-
cious draught of water, which infused new life into
him ; then dragging himself along from pool to
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES, 175
pool, he supported himself by small fish and
frogs.
One day he saw a wolf hunt down and kill a
deer in a neighboring prairie. He immediately
crawled forth from the ravine, drove off the wolf,
and, lying down beside the carcass of the deer,
remained there until he made several hearty meals,
by which his strength was much recruited.
Returning to the ravine, he pursued the course
of the brook, until it grew to be a considerable
stream. Down this he floated, until he came to
where it emptied into the Mississippi. Just at
the mouth of the stream he found a forked tree,
which he launched with some difficulty, and, get-
ting astride of it, committed himself to the cur-
rent of the mighty river. In this way he floated
along until he arrived opposite the fort at Coun-
cil Bluffs. Fortunately he arrived there in the
daytime, otherwise he might have floated unno-
ticed past this solitary post, and perished in the
idle waste of waters. Being descried from the
fort, a canoe was sent to his relief, and he was
brought to shore, more dead than alive, where he
soon recovered from his wounds, but remained
maimed for life.
Our man Beatte had come out of his contest
with the bear very much worsted and discomfited.
His drenching in the brook, together with the re-
cent change of weather, had brought on rheumatic
pains in his limbs, to which he is subject. Though
ordinarily a fellow of undaunted spirit, and above
all hardship, yet he now sat down by the fire,
gloomy and dejected, and for once gave way to
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176 CRAYON MJSCELLANr.
repining. Though in the prime of life, and of a
robust frame and apparently iron constitution,
yet by his own account he was little better than
a mere wreck. He was, in fact, a living monu-
ment of the hardships of wild frontier life. Bar-
ing his left arm, he showed it warped and con-
tracted by a former attack of rheumatism, — a
malady with which the Indians are often afflicted,
for their exposure to the vicissitudes of the ele-
ments does not produce that perfect hardihood
and insensibility to the changes of the seasons that
many are apt to imagine. He bore the scars of
various maims and bruises, some receiv^ in hunt-
ing, some in Indian warfare. His right arm had
been broken by a fall from his horse ; at another
time his steed had fallen with him, and crushed
his left leg.
" I am all broke to pieces and good for noth-
ing," said he ; '^ I no care now what happen to
me any more." "However," added he, after a
moment's pause, "for all that, it would take a
pretty strong man to put me down, anyhow."
I drew from him various particulars concem-^
ing himself, which served to raise him in my es-
timation. His residence was on the Neosho, in
an Osage hamlet or neighborhood, under the
superintendence of a worthy missionary from the
banks of the Hudson, by the name of Requa,
who was endeavoring to instruct the savages in
the art of agriculture, and to make husbandmen
and herdsmen of them. I had visited this agri-
cultural mission of Eequa in the course of my
recent tour along the frontier, and had considered
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A TOUR ON THE PRAmiES. 177
it more likely to produce solid advantages to the
poor Indians than any of the mere praying and
preaching missions along the border.
In this neighborhood, Pierre Beatte had his
little farm, his Indian wife, and his half-breed
ehildren, and aided Mr. Requa in his endeavors
to civilize the habits and meliorate the condition
of the Osage tribe. Beatte had been brought
up a Catholic, and was inflexible in his religious
ibith ; he oould not pray with Mr. Requa, he
said, but he oould work with him, and he evinced
a zeal for the good of his savage relations and
neighbors. Indeed, though his &,ther had been
French, and he himself had been brought up in
communion with the whites, he evidently was
more of an Indian in his tastes, and his heart
yearned towards his mother's nation. When ha
talked to me of the wrongs and insults that the
poor Indians suffered in their intercourse with
the rough settlers on the frontier, — when he de-
scribed the precarious and degraded state of the
Osage tribe, diminished in numbers, broken in
spirit,, and almost living on sufiei'ance in the land
where they once figured so heroically^ — I could
see his veins swell, and his nostrils distend with
indignation ; but he would check the feeling with
a strong exertion of Indian self-command, and, in
a manner, drive it back into his bosom.
He did not hesitate to relate an instance
wherein he had joined his kihdred Osages in
pursuing and avenging themselves on a party of
white men who had committed a flagrant outrage
upon them ; and I found, in the encounter that
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178 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
took place, Beatte had shown himself the com*
plete Indian.
He had more than once accompanied his Osage
relations in their wars with the Pawnees, and
related a skirmish which took place on the bor-
ders of these very hunting - grounds, in which
several Pawnees were killed. We should pass
near the place, he said, in the course of our tour,
and the unburied bones and skulls of the slain
were still to be seen there. The surgeon of the
troop, who was present at our conversation,
pricked up his ears at this intelligence. He was
something of a phrenologist, and offered Beatte
a handsome reward if he would procure him one
of the skulls.
Beatte regarded him for a moment with a look
of stem surprise.
«No ! " said he at length, « dat too bad I I
have heart strong enough — I no care kill, but
Ut the dead alone ! **
He added, that once, in travelling with a party
of white men, he had slept in the same tent with
a doctor, and found that he had a Pawnee skull
among his baggage : he at once renounced the
doctor's tent, and his fellowship. " He try to
coax me," said Beatte, " but I say no, we must
part — I no keep such company."
In the temporary depression of his spirits,
Beatte gave way to those superstitious forebod-
ings to which Indians are prone. He had sat for
Bome time, with his cheek upon his hand, gazing
into the fire. I found his thoughts were wander*
ing back to his humble home, on the banks of
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 179
the Neosho ; he was sure, he said, that he should
find some one of his faimtj ill, or dead, on his
return: his left eye had twitched and twinkled
for two days past ; an omen which always boded
some misfortune of the kind.
Such are the trivial circumstances which, when
magnified into omens, will shake the souls of these
men of iron. The least sign of mystic and sin-
ister portent is sufficient te turn a hunter or a
warrior from his course, or to fiU his mind with
apprehensions of impending eviL It is this su-
perstitious propensity, common to the solitary
and savage rovers of the wilderness, that gives
such powerful influence to the prophet and the
dreamer.
The Osages, with whom Beatte had passed
much of his life, retain these superstitious fan-
cies and rites in much of their original force.
They all believe in the existence of the soul after
its separation fix)m the body, and that it carries
with it all its mortal tastes and habitudes. At
an Osage village in the neighborhood of Beatte,
one of the chief warriors lost an only child, a
beautiful girl, of a very tender age. All her
playthings were buried with her. Her favorite
little horse, also, was killed, and laid in the grave
beside her, that she might have it to ride in the
land of spirits.
I will here add a little story, which I picked
up in the course of my tour through Beatte's
country, and which illustrates the superstitions
of his Osage kindred. A large party of Osages
had been encamped for some time on the borders
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180 CBATON MISCELLANY.
of a fine stream called ^e Nickananisa. Among
them was a young hunter, one of the bravest and
most graceful of the tribe, who was to be mar-
ried to an Osage girl, who, fi>r her beauty, was
called the Flower of the Prairies. The young
hunter left her for a time among her relatives in
the encampment, and went to St. Louis, to dis-
pose of the products of his hunting, and purchase
ornaments for his bride. After an absence of
some weeks, he returned to the banks of the
Nickanansa, but the camp was no longer there ;
the bare frames of the lodges and the brands of
extinguished fires alone marked the place. At a
distance he beheld a female seated, as if weeping,
by the side of the stream. It was his affianced
bride. He ran to embrace her, but she turned
mournfully away. He dreaded lest some evil
had befallen the camp.
" Where are our people ? ** cried he.
"They are gone to the banks of the Wag-
rushka."
" And what art thou doing here alone ?"
« Waiting for thee."
" Then let us hasten to join our people on the
banks of the Wagrushka."
He gave her his pack to carry, and walked
ahead, according to the Indian custom.
They came to where the smoke of the distant
camp was seen rising from the woody margin of
the stream. The girl seated herself at the foot
of a tree. '^ It is not proper for us to return
together," said she ; " I will wait here."
The young hunter proceeded to the camp alone,
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 181
and was received by his relations witli gloomy
ooonteuances.
" What evil has happened," said he, " that ye
are all so sad ? "
No one replied.
He turned to his favorite sister, and bade her
go forth, seek his bride, and conduct her to the
camp.
" Alas ! " cried she, " how shall I seek her ?
She died a few days since."
The relations of the yoimg girl now surrounded
him, weeping and wailing; but he refused to
believe the dismal tidings. ^ But a few moments
since," cried he, ^ I left her alone and in health ;
come with me, and I will conduct you to her."
He led the way to the tree where she had
seated herself, but she was no longer there, and
his pack lay on the ground. The fatal truth
struck him to the heart ; he fell to the ground
dead.
I give this simple little story almost in the
words in which it was related to me as I lay by
the fire in an evening encampment on the banks
of the haunted stream where it is said to have
happened.
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CHAPTER XXVm.
▲ uoBXi izpsDonoir. — Dua'SLBAxiNa.— kagio balls.
jlN the following morning we were re*
joined bj the rangers who had remained
at the last encampment, to seek for the
stray horses. They had tracked them for a con-
siderable distance through bush and brake, and
across streams, until thej found them cropping
the herbage on the edge of a prairie. Their
heads were in the direction of the fort^ and they
were evidently grazing their way homeward,
heedless of the unbounded fi'eedom of the prai-
rie so suddenly laid open to them.
About noon the weather held up, and I ob-
served a mysterious consultation going on between
our half-breeds and Tonish ; it ended in a request
that we would dispense with the services of the
latter fpr a few hours, and permit him to join his
comrades in a grand foray. We objected that
Tonish was too much disabled by aches and pains
for such an undertaking ; but he was wild with
eagerness for the mysterious enterprise, and, when
permission was given him, seemed to forget all
his ailments in an instant. *
In a short time the trio were equipped and oo
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 183
horseback, with rifles on their shoulders and hand-
kerchiefs' twisted round their heads, evidently
bound for a grand scamper. As they passed by
the different lodges of the camp, the vainglorious
little Frenchman could not help boasting to the
right and left of the great things he was about
to achieve ; though the taciturn Beatte, who rode
in advance, would every now and then check his
horse, and look back at him with an air of stem
rebuke. It was hard, however, to make the lo-
quacious Tonish play " Indian."
Several of the hunters, likewise, sallied forth,
and the prime old woodman, Ryan, came back
early in the afternoon, with ample spoil, having
killed a buck and two fat does. I drew near to
a group of rangers that had gathered round him
as he stood by the spoil, and found they were
discussing die merits of a stratagem sometimes
used in deer-hunting. This consists in imitating,
with a small instrument called a bleat, the cry
of the fawn, so as to lure the doe within reach
of the rifle. There are bleats of various kinds,
suited to calm or windy weather, and to the age
of the fawn. The poor animal, deluded by them,
in its anxiety about its young, will sometimes
advance close up to the hunter. ^' I once bleated
a doe," said a young hunter, " until it came within
twenty yards of me, and presented a sure mark.
I levelled my rifle three times, but had not the
heart to shoot, for the poor doe looked so wist-
fully, that it in a manner made my heart yearn.
I thought of my own mother, and how anxious
she used to be about me when I w&s a child ; so.
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184 CRAYON MI8CELLANY.
to put an end to the matter, I gave a halloo, and
started the doe out of rifle-shot in a moment."
" And you did right," cried honest old Rjan.
" For my part, I never could bring myself to
bleating deer. I Ve been with himters who had
bleats, and have made them throw them away.
It is a rascally trick to take advantage of a
mother's love for her young."
Towards evening, our three worthies returned
from their mysterious foray. The tongue of Ton-
ish gave notice of their approach long before they
came in sight ; for he was vociferating at the top
of his lungs, and rousing the attention of the
whole camp. The lag^g gait and reeking flanks
of their horses gave evidence of hard riding ; and,
on nearer approach, we found them hung round
with meat, like a butcher's shambles. In fact
they had been scouring an immense prairie that
extended beyond the forest, and which was cov-
ered with herds of buffalo. Of this prairie, and
the animals upon it, Beatte had received intelli-
gence a few days before, in his conversation with
the Osages, .but had kept the information a secret
from the rangers, that he and his comrades might
have the first dash at the game. They had con-
tented themselves with killing four; though, if
Tonish might be believed, they might have slain
them by scores.
These tidings, and the buffalo-meat brought
home in evidence, spread exultation through the
camp, and every one looked forward with joy to
a buffalo-hunt on the prairies. Tonish was again
the oracle of the camp, and held forth by the hour
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIEB, 185
to a knot af listeners, crouched round the fire,
with their shoulders up to their ears. He was
now more boastful than ever of his skill as a
marksman. All his want of success in the early
part of our march he attributed to being " out of
luck " if not " spell-bound " ; and finding himself
listened to with apparent credulity, gave an in-
stance of the kind, which he declared had hap-
pened to himself, but which was evidently a tale
picked up among his relations, the Osages.
According to this account, when about fourteen
years of age, as he was one day hunting, he saw
a white deer come out from a ravine. Crawling
near to get a shot, he beheld another and another
come forth, until there were seven, all as white as
snow. Having crept sufficiently near, he singled
one out and fired, but without efiect ; the deer
remained unfrightened. He loaded -and fired
again, and again he missed. Thus he continued
firing and missing until all his ammunition was
expended, and the deer remained without a wound.
He returned home despairing of his skill as a
marksman, but was consoled by an old Osage
hunter. These white deer, said he, have a
charmed life, and can only be killed by bullets of
a particular kind.
The old Indian cast several balb for Tonish,
but would not suffer him to be present on the oc-
casion, n(H* inform him of the ingredients and
mystic ceremonials.
Provided with these balb, Tonish again set
out in quest of the white deer, and succeeded in
Ending them. He tried at first with ordinary
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186 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
balls, but missed as before. A magic ball, how*
ever, immediately brought a fine buck to the
ground. Whereupon the rest of the herd imme-
diately disappeared, and were never seen again.
Oct 29. The morning opened gloomy and
lowering ; but towards eight o'clock the sun strug-
gled forth and lighted up the forest, and the notes
of the bugle gave signal to prepare for marching.
Now began a scene of bustle, and clamor, and
gayety. Some were scampering and brawling
after their horses; some were riding in bare-
backed, and driving in the horses of their com-
rades. Some were stripping the poles of the wet
blankets that had served for shelters ; others
packing up with all possible dispatch, and loading
the baggage horses as they arrived, while others
were cracking off their damp rifles and charging
them afresh, to be ready for the sport.
About ten o'clock we began our march. I
loitered in the rear of the troop as it forded the
turbid brook and defiled through the labyrinths of
the forest I always felt disposed to linger until
the last straggler disappeared among the trees,
and the distant note of the bugle died upon the
ear, that I might behold the wilderness relapsing
into silence and solitude. In the present instance,
the deserted scene of our late bustling encampment
had a forlorn and desolate appearance. The sur-
rounding forest had been in many places tram-
pled into a quagmire. Trees felled and partly
hewn in pieces, and scattered in huge fragments ;
tent-poles stripped of their covering ; smouldering
fires, with great morsels of roasted venison and
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES, 187
buffalo-meat, standing in wooden spits before thorn,
hacked and slashed hy the knives of hungry hunt-
ers; while around were strewed the hides, the
horns, Jhe antlers and bones of buffaloes and deer,
with uncooked joints, and unplucked turkeys, left
behind with that reckless improvidence and waste-
fulness which young hunters are apt to indulge
when in a neighborhood where game abounds.
In the mean time a score or two of turkey-buz-
zards, or vultures, were already on the wing,
wheeling their magnificent flight high in the air,
and preparing for a descent upon the camp as sooo
as it should be abandoned.
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CHAPTER XXIX.
THB OKAKD P&AIBIB.'<-A BUVFiXO BUNT.
[FTER proceeding about two hours in a
southerly direction, we emerged towards
mid-day from the dreary belt of the
Cross Timber, and to our infinite delight beheld
" the great Prairie," stretching to the right and
left before us. We could distinctly trace the
meandering course of the Main Canadian, and
various smaller streams, by the strips of green
forest that bordered them. The landscape was
vast and beautiM. There is always an expan-
sion of feeling in looking upon these boundless
and fertile wastes; but I was doubly conscious
of it after emerging from our ^ dose dungeon of
innumerous boughs."
From a rising ground Beatte pointed out the
place where he and his comrades had killed the
buffaloes; and we beheld several black objects
moving in the distance, which he said were
part of the herd. The Captain determined to
shape his course to a woody bottom about a mile
distant, and to encamp there for a day or two, by
way of having a regular buffalo-hunt, and getting
a supply of provisions. As the troop defiled
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 189
along the slope of the hill towards the camping-
ground, Beatte proposed to my messmates and my-
self, that we should put ourselves under his guid-
ance, promising to take us where we should have
plenty of sport Leaving the line of march
therefore, we diverged towards the prairie ; trav-
ersing a small valley, and ascending a gentle swell
of land. As we reached the summit, we beheld a
gang of wild horses about a mile off. Beatte was
immediately on the alert, and no longer thought
of buffalo-hunting. He was mounted on his
powerful half-wild horse, with a lariat coiled at
the saddle - bow, and set off in pursuit ; while
we remained on a rising ground watching his
manoeuvres with great solicitude. Taking advan-
tage of a strip of woodland, he stole quietly along,
so aa to get close to them before he was per-
ceived. The moment they caught sight of him a
grand scamper took place. We watched him
skirting along the horizon like a privateer in full
chase of a merchantman ; at length he passed
over the brow of a ridge, and down into a shallow
valley; in a few moments he was on the opposite
hill, and dose upon one of the horses. He was
soon head and head, and appeared to be trying to
noose his prey ; but they both disappeared again
below the hill, and we saw no more of them. It
turned out afterwards that he had noosed a pow-
erful horse, but could not hold him, and had lost
his lariat in the attempt
While we were waiting for his return, we per-
ceived two buffisdo bulls descending a slope, to-
wards a stream, which wound through a ravine
Digitized by VjOOQIC
190 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
fringed with trees. The young Count and myself
endeavored to get near them under covert of the
trees. They discovered us while we were yet
three or four hundred yards off, and turning about,
retreated up the rising ground. We urged our
horses across the ravine, and gave chase. The
immense weight of head and shoulders causes the
buffalo to labor heavily up-hiU ; but it accelerates
his descent We had the advantage, therefore,
and gained rapidly upon the fugitives, though it
was difficult to get our horses to approach them,
their very scent inspiring them with terror. The
Count) who had a double-barrelled gun loaded
with ball, fired, but it missed. The bulls now
altered their course, and galloped down-hill with
headlong rapidity. As they ran in different
directions, we each singled one and separated. I
was provided with a brace of veteran brass-bar-
relled pistols, which I had borrowed at Fort Gib-
son, and which had evidently seen some service.
Pistols are very effective in buffalo-hunting, as
the hunter can ride up close to the animal, and
fire at it while at full speed ; whereas the long
heavy rifles used on the frontier, cannot be easily
managed, nor discharged with accurate aim from
horseback. My object, therefore, was to get
withm pistol-shot of the buffalo. This was no
very easy matter. I was well mounted on a
horse of excellent speed and bottom, that seemed
eager for the chase, and soon overtook the game ;
but the moment he came nearly parallel, he
would keep sheering off, with ears forked and
pricked forward^ and every symptom of aversion
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A TOUR ON TSE PEAIBIE8. 191
and alarm. It was no wonder. Of all animals, a
buffalo, when dose pressed by the hunter, has an
aspect the most diabolical. His two short black
horns curve out of a huge frontlet of shaggy hair ;
his eyes glow like coals ; his mouth ia open, his
tongue parched and drawn np into a half crescent ;
his tail is erect, and tufted and whisking about
in the air : he is a perfect picture of mingled rage
and terror.
It was with diflculty I urged my horse suffi-
ciently near, when, taking aim, to my chagrin
both pistols missed fire. Unfortunately the locks
of these veteran weapons were so much worn, that
in the gallop the priming had been shaken out of
the pans. At the snapping of the last pistol I was
ck)8e upon the buffalo, when, in his despair, he
turned round with a sudden snort, and rushed
upon me. My horse wheeled about as if on a
pivot, made a convulsive spring, and, as I had
been leaning on one side with pistol extended, I
came near being thrown at the feet of the buffalo.
Three or four bounds of the horse carried us
out of the reach of the enemy, who, having merely
turned in desperate self-defence, quickly resumed
his flight As soon as I could gather in my panic-
stricken horse, and prime the pistols afresh, I
again spurred in pursuit of the buffalo, who
had sladcened his speed to take breath. On my
approach he again set off full tilt, heaving him-
self forward with a heavy rolling gallop, dashing
with headlong precipitation through brakes and
ravines, while several deer and wolves, startled
from their coverts by his thundering career, ran
helter-skelter to right and left across the waste*
13
Digitized by VjOOQIC
198 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
A gftUop across the prairies in pursuit of game
is bj no means so smooth a career as those may
imagine who have only the idea of an open level
plain. It is true, the prairies of the hunting-
ground are not so much entangled with flowering
plants and long herbage as the lower prairies, and
are principally covered with short buffalo^ass ;
but they are diversified by hill and dale, and
where most level, are apt to be cut up by deep
rifts and ravines, made by torrents after rains;
and which^ yawning &om an even sur&ce, are
almost like pitfalls in the way of the hunter,
checking him suddenly when in full career, or
subjecting him to the risk of limb and life. The
plains, too, are beset by burrowing-holes of small
animals, in which the horse is apt to sink to
the fetlock, and throw both himself and his rider.
The late rain had covered some parts of the prai-
rie, where the ground was hard, with a thin sheet
of water, through which the horse had to splash
his way. In other parts there were innumerable
shallow hollows, eight or ten feet in diameter,
made by the buffaloes, who wallow in sand and
mud like swine. These being filled with water,
shone like mirrors, so that the horse was continu-
ally leaping over them or springing on one side.
We had reached, too, a rough part of the prairie,
very much broken and cut up ; the buffalo, who
was running for life, took no heed to his course,
plunging down break-neck ravines, whero it was
necessary to skirt the borders in search of a safer
descent. At length we came to where a winter
stream had torn a deep chasm across the whole
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A TOUR ON THE PRAlRIEa, 198
prairie, leaTing open jagged rocks, and forming
a long glen bordered by steep crumbling cliffs of
mingled stone and clay. Down one of these the
buffalo flung himself, half tumbling, half leaping,
and then scuttled along the bottom ; while I, see-
ing all further pursuit useless, pulled up, and
gazed quietly after him from the border of the
diff, until he disappeared amidst the windings of
the rayine.
Nothing now remained bat to turn my steed
and reji^n my companions. Here at first was
some little difficulty. The ardor of the chase had
betrayed me into a long, heedless gallop. I now
found myself in the midst of a lonely waste, in
which the prospect was bounded by undulating
swells of land, naked and uniform, where, from
the deficiency of landmarks and distinct features,
an inexperienced man may become bewildered,
and lose his way as readily as in the wastes of
the ocean. The day, too, was overcast, so that I
could not guide myself by the sun ; my only
mode was to retrace the track my horse had
made in coming, though this I would oflen lose
sight of, where the ground was covered with
parched herbage.
To one unaccustomed to it, there is something
inexpressibly lonely in the solitude of a prairie.
The loneliness of a forest seems nothing to it
There the view is shut in by trees, and the im-
agination is left free to picture some livelier
scene beyond. But here we have an immense
extent of landscape without a sign of human ex-
istence. We have the consciousness of being far.
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194 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
for beyond the bounds of human habitation ; we
feel as if moving in the midst of a desert world.
As my horse lagged slowly back over the scenes
of our late scamper, and the delirium of the chase
had passed away, I was peculiarly sensible to
these circumstances. The silence of the waste
was now and then broken by the cry of a dis-
tant flock of pelicans, stalking like spectres about
a shallow pool ; sometimes by the sinister croak-
ing of a raven in the air, while occasionally a
scoundrel wolf would scour off from before me,
and, having attained a safe distance, would sit
down and howl and whine with tones that gave
a dreariness to the surrounding solitude.
After pursuing my way for some time, I de?
scried a horseman on the edge of a distant hill,
and soon recognized him to be the Coimt. He
bad been 'equally unsuccessfiil with myself ; we
were shortly after rejoined by our worthy conuude,
the Virtuoso, who, with spectacles on nose, had
made two or three ineffectual shots from horse-
back.
We determined not to seek the camp until we
had made one more effort. Casting our eyes about
the surrounding waste, we descried a herd of
buffalo about two miles distant, scattered apart,
and quietly grazing near a small strip of trees
and bushes. It required but little stretch of
&ncy to picture them so many cattle grazing on
the edge of a common, and that the grove might
shelter some lowly farm-house.
We now formed our plan to circumvent the
herd, and by getting on the other side of them, to
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES, 195
hunt them in the direction where we knew our
camp to be situated : otherwise, the pursuit might
take us to such a distance as to render it impos-
sible to find our way back before nightfalL Tak-
ing a wide circuit therefore, we moved slowly and
cautiously, pausing occasionally when we saw
any of the herd desist from grazing. The wind
fortunately set from them, otherwise they might
have scented us and have taken the alarm. In
this way we succeeded in getting round the herd
without disturbing it It consisted of about forty
head ; bulls, cows, and calves. Separating to some
distance from each other, we now approached
slowly in a parallel line, hoping by degrees to
steal near without exciting attention. They
began, however, to move off quietly, stopping at
every step or two to graze, when suddenly a bull,
that, unobserved by us, had been taking his siesta
under a clump of trees to our left, roused himself
from his lair, and hastened to join his companions.
We were still at a considerable distance, but the
game had taken the alarm. We quickened our
pace, they broke into a gallop, and now com-
menced a full chase.
As the ground was level, they shouldered along
with great speed, following each other in a line ;
two or three buUs bringing up the rear, the last
of whom, from his enormous size and venerable
frontlet, and beard of sunburnt hair, looked like
the patriarch of the herd, and as if he might long
have reigned the monarch of the prairie.
There is a mixture of the awfrd and the oomio
in the look of these huge animals, as they bear
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196 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
their great bulk forwards^ with an up and down
motion of the unwieldy head and shoulders, their
tail cocked up like the cue of Pantaloon in a pan-
tomime, the end whisking about in a fierce yet
whimsical style, and their eyes glaring venomously
with an expression of fright and fury.
For some time I kept parallel with the line,
without beiDg able to force my horse within pistol-
shot, so much had he been alarmed by the assault
of the buffalo in the preceding chase. At length
I succeeded, but was again balked by my pistols
missing fire. My companions, whose horses were
less fleet and more wayworn, could not overtake
the herd ; at length Mr. L., who was in the rear
k£ the line, and losing ground, levelled his double-
barrelled gun, and fired a long raking shot. It
struck a buffalo just above the loins, broke its
backbone, and brought it to the ground. He
stopped and alighted to dispatch his prey, when,
borrowing his gun, which had yet a charge re-
maining in it, I put my horse to his speed, again
overtook the herd which was thundering along,
pursued by the Count With my present weapon
there was no need of urging my horse to such
dose quarters ; galloping ^ong parallel, therefore,
I singled out a buffalo^ and by a fortunate shot
brought it down on the spot. The ball had
struck a vital part ; it could not move from the
place where it fell, but lay there struggling in
mortal agony, while the rest of the herd kept on
their headlong career across the prairie.
Dismounting, I now fettered my horse to pre-
vent his straying, and advanced to contemplate
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A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 197
ttij yictim. I am nothing of a sportsman ; I had
been prompted to this unwonted exploit by the
magnitude of the game and the excitement of an
adventurous chase. Now that the excitement
was over, I could not but look with commiseration
upon the poor animal that lay struggling and
bleeding at my feet. His very size and impor-
tance, which had before inspired me with eager-
ness, now increased my compunction. It seemed
as if I had inflicted pain in proportion to the bulk
of my victim, and as if there were a hundred-
fold greater waste of life than there would have
been in the destruction of an animal of inferior
size.
To add to these after-qualms of conscience, the '
poor animal lingered in his agony. He had evi-
dently received a mortal wound, but death might
be long in commg. It would not do to leave
him here to be torn piecemeal, while yet alive,
by the wolves that had already snuffed his blood,
and were skulking and howling at a distance, and
waiting for my departure; and by the ravens
that were flapping about, croaking dismally in the
air. It became now an act of mercy to give him
his quietus, and put him out of his misery. I
primed one of the pistols, therefore, and advanced
close up to the buffalo. To inflict a wound thus
in cold blood, I found a totally different thing
from firing in the heat of the chase. Taking aim^
however, just behind the fore-shoulder, my pistol
for once proved true ; the ball must have passed
through the heart, for the animal gave one con-
vulsive throe and expired.
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198 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
While I stood meditating and moralizing over
the wreck I had so wantonly produced, with my
horse grazing near me, I was rejoined by my fel-
low-sportsman the Virtuoso, who, being a man of
miiversal adroitness, and withal more experienced
and hardened in the gentle art of " venerie," soon
managed to carve out the tongue of the bufiPalo,
and delivered it to me to bear back to the camp
ad a trophy.
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CHAPTER XXX.
A OOKKASII LOST.— A SKA&OH POB THB OAIIP.— THX OOMMISnOnS,
THE WILD HORSE, AND THE BU7FAL0. —A WOLF SEKBNADB.
pUR solicitude was now awakened for the
young Count. With his usual eager-
ness and impetuosity he had persisted
in urging his jaded horse in pursuit of the herd,
unwilling to return without having likewise killed
a bufialo. In this way he had kept on following
them, hither and thither, and occasionally firing
an ineffectual shot, until by degrees horseman and
herd became indistinct in the distance, and at
length swelling ground and strips of trees and
thickets hid them entirely from sight
By the time my friend, the amateur, joined
me, the young Count had been long lost to view.
We held a consultation on the matter. Evening
was drawing on. Were we to pursue him, it
would be dark before we should overtake him,
granting we did not entirely lose trace of him in
the gloom. We should then be too much bewil-
dered to find our way back to the encampment ;
even now, our return would be difficult. We de-
termined, therefore, to hasten to the camp as
speedily as possible, and send out our half-breeds,
and some of the veteran hunters skilled in cruis
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200 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
ing about the prairies, to search for our com{MUi-
ion.
We accordingly set forward in what we sup-
posed to be the directioh of the camp. Our
weary horses could hardly be urged beyond a
walk. The twilight thickened upon us ; the land-
scape grew gradually indistinct ; we tried in vain
to recognize various landmarks which we had
noted in the morning. The features of the prai-
ries ai*e so similar as to baffle the eye of any but
an Indian, or a practised woodman. At length
night closed in. We hoped to see the dbtant
glare of camp-fires ; we listened to catch the
sound of the beUs about the necks of the grazing
horses. Once or twice we thought we distin-
guished them ; we were mistaken. Nothing was
to be heard but a monotonous concert of insects,
with now and then the dismal howl of wolves
mingling with the night breeze. We began to
think of halting for the night, and bivouacking
under the lee of some thicket. We had imple-
ments to strike a light ; there was plenty of fire-
wood at hand, and the tongues of our buffaloes
would furnish us with a repast
Just as we were preparing to dismount, we
heard the report of a rifle, and, shortly after, the
notes of the bugle, calling up the night-guard.
Pushing forward in that direction, the camp-fires
soon broke on our sight, gleaming at a distance
from among the thick groves of an alluvial bot-
tom.
As we entered the camp, we found it a scene
of rude hunters' revelry and wassaiL There had
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A TOUR 02f THE PRAIRIES, 201
been a grand day's sport, in which all had taken
a part Eight buffaloes had been killed ; roaring
fires were blazing on every side ; all hands were
feasting upon roasted joints, broiled marrow-bones,
and the juicy hump, far-famed among the epicures
of the prairies. Right glad were we to dismount
and partake of the sturdy cheer, for we had been
on. our weary horses since morning, without tast-
ing food.
Aa to our worthy friend, the Commissioner, with
whom we had parted company at the outset of
this eventful day, we found him lying in a comer
of the tent, mudi the worse for wear, in the course
of a successful hunting-match.
It seems that our man Beatte, in his zeal to
give the Commissioner an opportunity of distin-
guishing himself, and gratifying his hunting pro-
pensities, had mounted him upon his half-wild
horse, and started him in pursuit of a huge buf-
falo bull that had already been frightened by the
hunters. The horse, which was fearless as his
owner, and, like him, had a considerable spice of
devil in his composition, and who, beside, had
been made familiar with the game, no sooner came
in sight and scent of the buffalo than he set off
full speed, bearing the involuntary hunter hither
and thither, and whither he would not — up-hill
and down-hill — leaping pools and brooks — dash-
ing through glens and guUies, until he came up
with the game. Instead of sheering off, he
crowded upon the buffalo. The Commissioner,
almost in self-defence, discha]:ged both barrels of
a double-barrelled gun into the enemy. The
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202 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
» ^^
broadside took effect, but was not mortal. The
buffalo turned furiously upon his pursuer: the
horse, as he had been taught by his owner,
wheeled off. The buffalo plunged after him.
The worthy Commissioner, in great extremity,
drew his sole pistol from his holster, fired it off
as a stem -chaser, shot the buffalo full in the
breast^ and brought him lumbering forward to the
earth.
The Commissioner returned to camp, lauded on
all sides for his signal exploit^ but grievously
battered and wayworn. He had been a hard
rider per force, and a victor in spite of himself.
He turned a deaf ear to all compliments and con-
gratulations, had but little stomadh for the hunt-
er's &re placed before him, and soon retreated
to stretch his limbs in the tent^ declaring that
nothing should tempt him again to mount that
half-devil Indian horse, and that he had enough
of buffalo hunting for the rest of his life.
It was too dark now to send any one in search
of the young Count. Guns, however, were fired,
and the bugle sounded from time to time, to guide
him to the camp, if by chance he should straggle
within hearing ; but the night advanced without
his making his appearance. There was not a star
visible to guide him, and we concluded that, where-
ever he was, he would give up wandering in the
dark, and bivouac until daybreak.
It was a raw, overcast night The carcasses
of the buffaloes killed in the vicinity of the camp
had drawn about it an unusual number of wolves,
who kept up the most forlorn concert of whining
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 203
yells, prolonged into dismal cadences and inflex-
ions, literally converting the surroundiiig waste
into a howling wilderness. Nothing Ls more mel-
ancholy than the midnight howl of a wolf on a
prairie. What rendered the gloom and wildncss
of the night and the savage concert of the neigh-
boring waste the more dreary to us, was the idea
of the lonely and exposed situation of our young
and inexperienced comrade. We trusted, how-
ever, that on the return of daylight he would find
his way back to the camp, and then all the events
of the night would be remembered only as so
many savory gratifications of his passion for ad-
venture.
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CHAPTER XXXL
A HUNT FOB A LOST COM&ADK.
lELE morning dawned, and an hour or
two passed without any tidings of the
Count. We hegan to feel uneasiness^
lest, having no compass to aid him, he might per-
plex himself and wander in some opposite direc-
tion. Stragglers are thus often lost for days.
What made us the more anxious about him was,
that he had no provisions with him, was totally
unversed in " wood-craft," and liable to fall into
the hands of some lurking or straggling party of
savages.
As soon as our people, therefore, had made
their breakfast, we beat up for volunteers for a
cruise in search of the G)unt. A dozen of the
rangers, mounted on some of the best and freshest
horses, and armed with rifles, were soon ready to
start ; our half-breeds Beatte and Antoine also,
with our little mongrel Frenchman, were zealous
in the cause ; so Mr. L. and myself taking the
lead, to show the way to the scene of our little
hunt, where we had parted company with the
Count, we all set out across the prairie. A ride
of a couple of miles brought us to the carcasses
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of the two buffaloes we had killed. A legiou of
ravenous wolves were already gorging upon them.
At our approach they reluctantly drew off, skulk-
ing with a caitiff look to the distance of a few
hundred yards^ and there awaiting our departure,
that they might return to their banquet.
I conducted Beatte and Antoine to the spot
whence the young Count had continued the chase
alone. It was like putting hounds upon the
scent They immediately distinguished the track
of his horse amidst the trampings of the bu£^oes,
and set off at a round pace, following with the
eye in nearly a straight course, for upwards of a
mile, when they came to where the herd had di-
vided and run hither and thither about a meadow.
Here the track of the horse's hoofs wandered and
doubled and often crossed each other ; our half-
breeds were like hounds at fiiult. While we were
%t a halt, waiting until they should unravel the
maze, Beatte suddenly gave a short Indian whoop,
or rather yelp, and pointed to a distant hill. On
T^arding it attentively, we perceived a horseman
on the summit " It is the Count ! " cried Beatte,
and set off at full gallop, followed by the whole
company. In a few moments he checked his
horse. Another figure on horseback had appeared
on the brow of the hill. This completely altered
the case. The Count had wandered off alone ;
no other person had been missing fix)m the camp.
If one of these horsemen were indeed the County
the other must be an Indian ; if an Indian, in
all probability a Pawnee. Perhaps they were
bolli Indians ; scouts of some party lurking in the
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206 CBATON MISCELLANY.
vicmitj. While these and other suggestions were
hastily discussed, the two horsemen glided down
from tUb profile of the hill, and we lost sight of
them. One of the rangers suggested that there
might be a straggling party of Pawnees behind
the hill, and that the Count might have fallen into
their hands. The idea had an electric effect upon
the little troop. In an instant every horse was
at full speed, the half-breeds leading the way;
the young rangers as they rode set up wild yelps
of exultation at the thought of having a brush
with the Indians. A neck - or - nothing gallop
brought us to the skirts of the hill, and revealed
our mistake. In a ravine we found the two
horsemen standing by the carcass of a buffalo
which they had killed. They proved to be two
rangers, who, unperceived, had left the camp a
little before us, and had come here in a direct
line, wbjle we had made a wide circuit about the
prairie.
This episode being at an end, and the sudden
excitement being over, we slowly and coolly re-
traced our steps to the meadow, but it was some
time before our half-breeds could again get on
the. track of the Count. Having at length found
it, they succeeded in following it through all its
doublings, until they came to where it was no
longer mingled with the tramp of buffaloes, but
became single and separate, wandering here and
there about the prairies, but always tending in a
direction opposite to that of the camp. Here the
Count had evidently given up the pursuit of the
herd, and had endeavored to find his way to the
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A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 207
encampment, but had become bewildered as the
evening shades thickened around him, and had
completely mistaken the points of the compass.
In all this quest our half-breeds displayed that
quickness of eye, in following up a track, for
which Indians are so noted. Beatte, especially,
was as stanch as a veteran hound. Sometimes
he would keep forwai'd on an easy trot, his eyes
fixed on the ground a little ahead of his horse,
clearly distinguishing prints in the herbage which
to me were invisible, excepting on the closest in-
spection. Sometimes he would pull up and walk
his horse slowly, regarding the ground intensely,
where to my eye nothing was apparent. Then
he would dismount, lead his horse by the bridle,
and advance cautiously step by step, with his face
bent towards the earth, just catching, here and
there, a casual indication of the vaguest kind to
guide him onward. In some places where the
soil was hard, and the grass withered, he would
lose the track entirely, and wander backwards
and forwards, and right and left, in search of it ;
returning occasionally to the place where he had •
lost sight of it, to take a new departure. If this
failed, he would examine the banks of the neigh-
boring streams, or the sandy bottoms of the
ravines, in hopes of finding tracks where the
Count had crossed. When he again cume upon
the track, he would remount his horse, and re-
sume his onward course. At length, after cross-
ing a stream, in the crumbling banks of which
the hoofe of the horse were deeply dented, we
came upon a high dry prairie, where our half-
14
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208 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
breeds were completely baffled. Not a footprint
was ta be discerned, though they searched in
every direction ; and Beatte at len^h coming to
a pause, shook his head despondingly.
Just then a small herd of deer, roused from a
neighboring ravine, came bounding by us. Beatte
sprang fix)m his horse, levelled his rifle, and
wounded one slightly, but without bringing it to
the ground. The report of the rifle was almost
immediately followed by a long halloo from a dis-
tance. We looked around, but could see nothing.
Another long halloo was heard, and at length a
horseman was descried, emerging out of a skirt
of forest. A single glance showed him to be the
young Count ; there was a universal shout and
scamper, every one setting oflf full gallop to greet
him. It was a joyful meeting to both parties,
for much anxiety had been felt by us all on ac-
count of his youth and inexperience, and for his
part, with all his love of adventure, he seemed
right glad to be once more among his friends.
As we supposed, he had completely mistaken
•his course on the preceding evening, and had
wandered about until dark, when he thought of
bivouacking. The night was cold, yet he feared
to make a fire, lest it might betray him to some
lurking party of Indians. Hobbling his horse
with his pocket-handkerchief, and leaving him to
graze on the margin of the prairie, he clambered
into a tree, fixed his saddle in the fork of the
branches, and placing himself securely with his
back against the trunk, prepared to pass a drearf-
and anxious night, regaled occasionally with the
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A TOUR ON THE PRAJRIEB. 209
howliBgs of the wolves. He was agreeably dis-
appointed. The fatigue of the day soon brought
on a sound sleep ; he had delightful dreams about
his home in Switzerland ; nor did he wake until
it was broad daylight.
He then descended from his roosting - place,
mounted his horse, and rode to the naked sum-
mit of a hill, whence he beheld a trackless wil-
derness around him, but, at no great distance, the
N Grand Canadian, winding its way between bor-
ders of forest land. The sight of this river con-
soled him with the idea that, should he fiul in
finding his way back to the camp, or in being
found by some party of his comrades, he might
follow the course of the stream, which could not
fail to conduct him to some frontier post, or In-
dian hamlet. So closed the events of our hap-
hazard buffalo hunt.
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CHAPTER XXXn.
A RKPUBUO OP P&AXBIE-SOC^S.
jjN returning from our expedition in quest
of the young Count, I learned that a
buiTow, or village, as it is termed, of
prairie-dogs had been discovered on the level
summit of a hill, about a mile from the camp.
Having heard much of the habits and peculiari-
ties of these little animals, I determined to pay a
visit to the community. The prairie-dog is, in
fact, one of the curiosities of the Far West,
about which travellers delight to tell marvellous
tales, endowing him at times with something of
the politic and social habits of a rational being,
and giving him systems of civil government and
domestic economy almost equal to what they used
to bestow upon the beaver.
The prairie-dog is an animal of the coney
kind, and about the size of a rabbit He is of a
sprightly mercurial nature ; quick, sensitive, and
somewhat petulant He is very gregarious, liv-
ing in large communities, sometimes of several
acres in extent, where innumerable little heaps
of earth show the entrances to the subterranean
cells of the inhabitants, and the well beaten
tracks, like lanes and streets, show their mobility
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIEa. 211
and restlessness. According to the accounts
given of them, they would seem to be continually
ftdl of sport, business, and public affairs ; whisk-
ing about hither and thither, as if on gossiping
visits to each other's houses, or congregating in
the cool of the evening, or after a shower, and
gambolling together in the open air. Sometimes
especially when the moon shines, they pass half
the night in revelry, barking or yelping with
short, quick, yet weak tones, like those of very
young puppies. While in the height of their
playfulness and clamor, however, should there bo
the least alarm, they all vanish into their cells in
an instant, and the village remains blank and
silent In case they are hard pressed by their
pursuers, without any hope of escape, they will
assume a pugnacious air, and a most whimsical
look of impotent wrath and defiance.
The prairie-dogs are not permitted to remain
sole and undisturbed inhabitants of their own
homes. Owls and rattlesnakes are said to take
up their abodes with them ; but whether as in-
vited guests or unwelcome intruders, is a matter
of controversy. The owls are of a peculiar kind,
and would seem to partake of the character of
the hawk ; for they are taller and more erect on
their legs, more alert in their looks and rapid in
their flight than ordinary owls, and do not confine
their excursions to the night, but sally forth in
broad day.
Some say that they only inhabit cells which
the prairie-dogs have deserted, and suffered to go
to ruin, in consequence of the death in them of
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21S CRAYON MISCELLANY.
some rektive ; for they would make ont this little
animal to be endowed with keen sensibilities, that
will not permit it to remain in the dwelling where
it has witnessed the death of a friend. Other
fandfal speculators represent the owl as a kind
of housekeeper to the prairie - dog ; and, from
having a note very similar, insinuate that it aets^
in a manner, as family preceptor, and teaches the
young litter to bark.
As to the rattlesnake, nothing satisfactory has
been ascertained of the part he plays in this most
interesting household, though he is considered as
little better than a sycophant and sharper, that
winds himself into the concerns of the honest,
credulous little dog, and takes him in most sadly.
Certain it is, if he acts as toad-eater, he occa-
sionally solaces himself with more than the usual
perquisites of his order, as he is now and then
detected with one of the younger members of the
family in his maw.
Such are a few of the particulars that I could
gather about the domestic economy of this little
inhabitant of the prairies, who, with his pigmy
republic, appears to be a subject of much whim-
sical speculation and burlesque remarks, among
the hunters of the Far West.
It Was towards evening that I set out with a
companion, to visit the village in question. Un-
luckily, it liad been invaded in the course of the
day by some of the rangers, who had shot two
or three of its inhabitants, and thrown the whole
sensitive community in confusion. As we ap-
proached, we could perceive numbers of the
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 218
bhabitants seated at the entrances of their cells,
while sentinels seemed to have been posted on
i!b& oatskirts, to keep a look-out. At sight of
us, the pid^et guards scampered in and gave the
alarm ; whereupon every inhabitant gave a short
yelp, or bark, and dived into his hole,- his heels
twinkling in the air as if he had thrown a som-
erset.
We traversed the whole village, or republic,
which covered an area of about thirty acres ;
but not a whisker of an inhabitant was to be seen.
We probed their ceUs as &r as the ramrods of
our rifles would reach, but could unearth neither
dog, nor owl, nor rattlesnake. Moving quietly
to a little distance, we lay down upon the ground
and watched for a long time, silent and motionless.
By-and-by a cautious old burgher would slowly
put forth tiie end of his nose, but instantly draw
it in again. Another, at a greater distance, would
emerge entirely ; but, catching a glance of us,
would throw a somerset, and plunge back again
into his hole. At length, some who resided on
the opposite side of the village, taking courage
from the continued stillness, would steal forth,
and hurry off to a distant hole, the residence pos-
sibly of some family connection, or gossiping
friend, about whose safety they were solicitous,
or with whom they wished to compare notes
about the late occurrences.
Others still more bold, assembled in little
knots, in the streets and public places, as if to
discuss the recent outrages offered to the com-
monwealth, and the atrocious murders of their fel-
low-burghers
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214 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
We rose from the ground and moved forward,
to take a nearer view of these public proceedings,
when, yelp I yelp ! yelp ! — there was a shrill
alarm passed from mouth to mouth ; the meetings
suddeidy dispersed ; feet twinkled in the air in
every direction ; and in an instant all had van-
ished into the earth.
The dusk of the evening put an end to our
observations, but the train of whimsical compari-
sons produced in my brain by the moral attributes
which I had heard given to these little politic
animals, still continued after my return to camp ;
and late in the night, as I lay awake after all the
camp was asleep, and heard, in the stillness of
the hour, a faint clamor of shrill voices from the
distant village, I could not help picturing to my-
self the inhabitants gathered together in noisy
assemblage, and windy debate, to devise plans for
the public safety, and to vindicate the invaded
rights and insulted dignity of the republic
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CHAPTER XXXm.
A OOVNOIL IK THB OAMP. — UASOKS FOB YAOHra HOITEWABDS. — H0B81S
LOST. — DXPARTUBKWITHADKTAOHMZNT ON THE HOMKWABD BOUTS.
SWAMP. — WILD HOBSX. — CAMP-SCBNB BT MIGHT. —THB OWL, HAB-
BOCaSB 07 DAWK.
|HILE breakfast was preparing, a council
was held as to our future movements.
Symptoms of discontent had appeared,
for a day or two past, among the rangers, most
of whom, unaccustomed to the life of the prai-
ries, had become impatient of its privations, as
well as the restraints of the camp. The want
of bread had been felt severely, and they were
wearied with constant travel. In fact, the novelty
and excitement of the expedition were at an end.
They had hunted the deer, the bear, the elk, the
buffalo, and the wild horse, and had no further
object of leading interest to look forward to. A
general inclination prevailed, therefore, to turn
homewards.
Grave reasons disposed the Captain and his
oflicers to adopt this resolution. Our horses
were generally much jaded by the fatigues of
travelling and hunting, and had fallen away sadly
for want of good pasturage, and from being
tethered at night, to protect them from Indian
depredations. The late rains, too, seemed to
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216 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
have washed away the nourishment &om the
Bcanty herbage that remained ; and since our en-
campment during the storm our horses had lost
flesh and strength rapidly. With every possible
care, horses accustomed to grain and to the regu-
lar and plentiM nourishment of the stable and
•the farm, lose heart and condition in travelling on
the prairies. In ' all expeditions of the kind we
were engaged in, the hardy Indian horses, which
are generally mustangs, or a cross of the wild
breed, are to be preferred. They can stand all
fatigues, hardships, and privations, and thrive on
the grasses and wild herbage of the plains.
Our men, too, had acted with little forethought ;
galloping off, whenever they had a chance, after
the game that we encountered while on the
march. In this way they had strained and
wearied their horses, instead of husbanding their
strength and spirits. On a tour of the kind,
horses should as seldom as possible be put off of
a quiet walk ; and the average day's journey
should not exceed ten miles.
We had hoped, by pushing forward, to reach
the bottoms of the Red River, which abound with
young cane, a most nourishing forage for cattle at
this season of the year. It would now take us
several days to arrive there, and in the mean
time many of our horses would probably give
out. It was the time, too, when the hunting
parties of Indians set fire to the prairies ; the
herbage, throughout this part of the country, was
in that parched state favorable to combustion,
and there was daily more and more risk that the
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES, 217
prairies between us and the fort would be set on
fire by some of the return parties of Osages, and
a scorched desert left for us to traverse. In a
word, we had started too late in the season, or
loitered too much in the early part of our march,
to accomplish our originally intended tour ; and
there was imminent hazard, if we continued on,
that we should lose the greater part of our
horses; and, besides suffering various other in-
conveniences, be obliged to return on foot. It
was determined, therefore, to give up all further
progress, and, turning our faces to the southeast,
to make the best of our way back to Fort Gib-
son.
This resolution being taken, there was an im-
mediate eagerness to put it into operation. Sev-
eral horses, however, were missing,, and among
others those of the Captain and the Surgeon.
Persons had gone in search of them, but the
morning advanced without any tidings of them.
Our party, in the mean time, being all ready for
a march, the Commissioner determined to set off
in the advance, with his original escort of a lieu-
tenant and fourteen rangers, leaving the Captain
to come on at his convenience, with the m«un
body. At ten o'clock' we accordingly started,
under the guidance of Beatte, who had hunted
over this part of the country, and knew the
direct route to the garrison.
For some distance we skirted the prairie, keep-
ing a southeast direction ; and in the course of
our ride we saw a variety of wild animals, deer,
white and black wolves, buf&loes, and wild horses.
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218 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
To the latter our half-breeds aud Tonish gave
ineffectual chase, only serving to add to the weari-
ness of their already jaded steeds. Indeed it is
rarely that any but the weaker and least fleet of
the wild horses are taken in these hard racings ;
while the horse of the huntsman is prone to be
knocked up. The latter, in fact, risks a good
horse to catch a bad one. On this occasion, Ton-
ish, who was a perfect imp on horseback, and
noted for ruining every animal he bestrode, suc-
ceeded in laming and almost disabling the power-
ful gray on which we had mounted him at the
outset of our tour.
After proceeding a few miles, we left the prai-
rie, and struck to the east, taking what Beatte
pronounced an old Osage war-track. This led us
through a rugged tract of country, overgrown
with scrubbed forests and entangled thickets, and
intersected by deep ravines and brisk-running
streams, the sources of Little River. About
three o'clock, we encamped by some pools of
water in a small valley, having come about four-
teen miles. We had brought on a supply of pro-
visions from our last camp, and supped heartily
upon stewed buffalo meat, roasted venison, beig-
nets, or fritters of flour fried in bear's lard, and
tea made of a species of the golden-rod, which
we had found, throughout our whole route, almost
as grateful a beverage as coffee. Indeed our cof-
fee, which, as long as it held out, had been served
up with every meal, according to the custom of
the West, was by no means a beverage to boast of.
It was roasted in a frying-pan, without much care
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES, 219
pounded in a leathern bag with a round stone,
and boiled in our prime and almost only kitchen
utensil, the camp-kettle, in "branch" or brook
water ; which, on the prairies, is deeply colored by
the soil, of which it always holds abundant par-
ticles in a state of solution and suspension. In
fact, in the course of our tour, we had tasted the
quality of every variety of soU, and the draughts
of water we had taken might vie in diversity of
color, if not of flavor, with the tinctures of an
apothecary's shop. Pure, limpid water is a rare
luxury on the prairies, at least at this season of
the year. Supper over, we placed sentinels about
our scanty and diminished camp, spread our skins
and blankets under the trees, now nearly destitute
of foliage, and slept soundly until morning.
We had a beautiful daybreak. The camp
again resounded with cheerful voices ; every one
was animated with the thoughts of soon being at
the fort, and revelling on bread and vegetables.
Even our saturnine man, Beatte, seemed inspired
on this occasion ; and as he drove up the horses
for the march, I heard him singing, in nasal tones,
a most forlorn Indian ditty. AU tlud transient
gayety, however, soon died away amidst the
fatigues of our march, which lay through the
same kind of rough, hilly, thicketed country as
that of yesterday. In the course of the morning
we arrived at the valley of the Little River,
where it wound through a broad bottom of allu-
vial soil At present it had overflowed its banks,
and inundated a great part of the valley. The
difficulty was to distinguish the stream from the
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220 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
broad sheets of water it had formed, and to find
a place where it might be forded ; for it was m
general deep and miry, with abrupt crumbling
banks. Under the pilotage of Beatte, therefore,
we wandered for some time among the links made
by this winding stream, in what appeared to us
a trackless labyrinth of swamps, thickets, and
standing pools. Sometimes our> jaded hoi^ses
dragged their limbs forward with the utmost diffi-
culty, having to toil for a great distance, with the
water up to the stirrups, and beset at the bottom
with roots and creeping plants. Sometimes we
had to force our way through dense thickets of
brambles and grape-vines, which almost pulled
us out of our saddles. In one place, one of the
pack-horses sunk in the mire and fell on his
side, so as to be extricated with great difficulty.
Wherever the soil was bare, or there was a sand-
bank, we beheld innumerable tracks of bears,
wolves, wild horses, turkeys, and water-fowl;
showing the abundant sport this valley might
afford to the huntsman. Our men, however, were
sated with hunting, and too weary ' to be excited
by these signs, which in the outset of our tour
would have put them in a fever of anticipation.
Their only desire at present was to push on dog-
gedly for the fortress.
At length we succeeded in finding a fording-
place, where we all crossed Little River, with the
water and mire to the saddle-girths, and then
halted for an hour and a hal^ to overhaul the wet
baggage, and give the horses time to rest.
On resuming our march, wo came to a pleasant
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES, 221
little meadow, surrounded by groves of elms and
ootton-wood trees, in the midst of which was a
fine black horse grazing. Beatte, who was in the
advance, beckoned us to halt, and, being mounted
on a mare, approached the horse gently, step by
step, imitating the whinny of the animal with
admirable exactness. The noble courser of the
prairie gazed &r a time, snuffed the air, neighed,
pricked up his ears, and pranced round and round
the mare in gallant style, but kept at too great a
distance for Beatte to throw the lariat He was
a magnificent object, in all the pride and glory of
his nature. It was admirable to see the lofly and
airy carriage of his head ; the freedom of every
movement ; the elasticity with which he trod the
meadow. Finding it impossible to get within
noosing distance, and seeing that the horse was
receding and growing alarmed, Beatte slid down
from his saddle, levelled his rifie across the back
of his mare, and took aim, with the evident in-
tention of creasing him. I felt a throb of anx-
iety for the safety of the noble animal, and
called out to Beatte to desist. It was too late ;
he pulled the trigger as I spoke ; luckily he did
not shoot with his usual accuracy, and I had the
satisfaction to see the ooal-blad: steed dash off
unharmed into the forest
. On leaving this vaUey, we ascended among
broken hills and rugged, ragged forests, equally
harassing to horse and rider. The ravines, too,
were of red day, and oflen so steep that, in de«
Bcending, the horses would put their feet together
and fairly slide down, and then scramble up the
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222 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
opposite side like cats. Here and there among
the thickets in the valleys we met with sloes and
persimmon, and the eagerness with which our
men broke from the line' of march, and ran to
gather these poor fruits, showed how much they
craved some vegetable condiment, after living so
long exclusively on animal food.
About half-past three we encamped near a
brook in a meadow, where there was some scanty
herbage for our half-famished horses. As Beatte
had killed a fat doe in the course of the day, and
one of our company a fine turkey, we did not lack
for provisions.
It was a splendid autumnal evening. The ho-
rizon, after sunset, was of a clear apple-green, ris-
ing into a delicate lake which gradually lost itself
in a deep purple blue. One narrow streak of
cloud, of a mahogany color, edged with amber and
gold, floated in the west, and just beneath it was
the evening star, shining with the pure brilliancy
of a diamond. In unison with this scene there
was an evening concert of insects of various
kinds, all blended and harmonized into one sober
and somewhat melancholy note, which I have
always found to have a soothing effect upon the
mind, disposing it to quiet musings.
The night that succeeded was calm and beauti-
ful. There was a faint light from the moon,.no^
in its second quarter, and after it had set, a fine
starlight, with shooting meteors. The wearied
rangers, after a little murmuring conversation
round their fires, sank to rest at an early hour, and
I seemed to have the whole scene to myself. It is
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. S2S
deUghtful, in thus bivouacking on the prairies, to
lie awake and gaze at the stars ; it is like watching
them from the deck of a ship at sea, when at one
view we have the whole cope of heaven. One
realizes, in such lonely scenes, that companionship
with these beautiful luminaries which made as-
tronomers of the eastern shepherds, as they
watched their flocks by night How often, while
contemplating their mUd and benignant radiance, I
have called to mind the exquisite text of Job, —
'^ Canst thou bind the secret influences of the
Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion ? " I do
not know why it was, but I felt this night unusu-
ally aflected by the solemn magnificence of the
firmament ; and seemed, as I lay thus under the
open vault of heaven, to inhale with the pure un-
tainted air an exhilarating buoyancy of spirit,
and, as it were, an ecstasy of mind. I slept and
waked alternately ; and when I slept, my dreams
partook of the happy tone of my waking reveries.
Towards morning, one of the sentinels, the oldest
man in the troop, came and took a seat near me :
he was weary and sleepy, and impatient to be
relieved. I found he had been gazing at the
heavens also, but with different feelings.
" If the stars don't deceive me." said he, " it is
near daybreak."
^ There can be no doubt of that," said Beatte,
who lay dose by. " I heard an owl just now."
'^ Does the owl, then, hoot towards daybreak ? "
asked L
^ Aye, sir, just as the cock crows."
15
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224
CRAYON MISCELLANr.
This was a useful habitude of the bird of
dom, of which I was not aware. Neither the
stars nor owl deceived their votaries. In a
short time there was a &int streak of light in the
^;W5S
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CHAPTER XXXIV.
0U> OlIBK IROAMPMBIIT. — SOABCITT OP PB0TX8I0R8. —BAD WBAZHIB.
WBAET MABOBDia. — ▲ HUHna'S BlIMB.
|HE countrj ihrongh which we passed
this morning (Nov. 2), was less nigged,
and of more agreeable aspect than that
wo had lately traversed. At eleven o'clock we
came out upon an extensive prairie, and about six
miles to our left beheld a long line of green forest,
marking the course of the north fork of the Ar-
kansas. On the edge of the prairie, and in a
spacious grove of noble trees which overshadowed
a small brook, were the traces of an old Greek
hunting-camp. On the bark of the trees were
rude delineations of hunters and squaws, scrawled
with charcoal; together with various signs and
hieroglyphics, which our half-breeds interpreted
as indicating that from this encampment the hunt-
ers had returned home.
In tibis beautiful camping-ground we made our
mid-day halt While reposing^ under the trees,
we heard a shouting at no great distance, and pres-
ently the Captain and the main body of rangers,
whom we had left behind two days since, emerged
fix>m the thickets, and crossing the brook, were
joyfully welcomed into the camp. The Oe^tain
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226 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
and the Doctor had been unsuccessful in the
search after their horses, and were obliged to
march for the greater part of the time on foot; yet
they had come on with more than ordinary speed.
We resumed our march about one o'clock, keep-
ing easterly, and approaching the north fork
obliquely; it was late before we found a good
camping-place ; the beds of the streams were dry,
the prairies, too, had been burnt in various places,
by Indian hunting-parties. At length we found
water in a small alluvial bottom, where there was
tolerable pasturage.
On the following morning there were flashes
of lightning in the east, with low^ rumbling thun-
der, and clouds began to gather about the horizon.
Beatte prognosticated rain, and that the wind
would veer to the north. In the course of our
march, a flock of brant were seen overhead, flying
from the north. " There comes the wind I " said
Beatte ; and, in fact, it began to blow from that
quarter almost immediately, with occasional flur-
ries of rain. About half-past nine o'clock, we
forded the north fork of the Canadian, and en-
camped about one, that our hunters might have
time to beat up the neighborhood for game ; for
a serious scarcity began to prevail in the camp.
Most of the rangers were young, heedless, and
inexperienced, and could not be prevailed upon,
while provisions abounded, to provide for the
future, by jerking meat, or carrying away any on
their horses. On leaving an encampment, they
would leave quantities of meat lying about, trust-
ing to Providence and their rifles for a fatoie
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIEB. 227
Bopplj. The oonsequenoe was, that any temporary
Bcarcitj of game, or ill luck in huntmg^ produced
almost a famine in the camp. In the present in^
stance, thej had left loads of bufi^o meat at the
camp on the great prairie ; and having ever since
been on a forced march, leaving no time for
hunting, they were now destitute of supplies, and
pinched with hunger. Some had not eaten any-
thing since the morning of the preceding day.
Nothing would have persuaded them, when rev-
elling in the abundance of the buffalo encamp-
ment, that they would so soon be in such famish-
ing plight.
The hunters returned with indifferent success.
The game had been lightened away from this
part of the country by Indian hunting-parties
which had preceded us. Ten or a dozen wild
turkeys were brought in, but not a deer had been
seen. The rangers began to think turkeys and
even prairie-hens deserving of attention, — game
which they had hitherto considered unworthy of
their rifles.
The night was cold and windy, with occasional
sprinklings of rain ; but we had roaring fires to
keep us comfortable. In the night a flight of
wild geese passed over the camp, making a great
cackling in the au*, — symptoms of approaching
winter.
We set £>rward at an early hour the next
morning, in a northeast course, and came upon
the trace of a par^ of Creek Lidians, which en-
abled our poor horses to travel with more ease.
We entered upon a fine champaign country.
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228 CBATON MIBCELLANY.
From a rising ground we had a noble prospect
over extensive prairies, finely diversified by groves
and tracts of woodland, and bounded by long
lines of distant hills, all clothed with the rich
mellow tints of autumn. Game, too, was more
plenty. A fine buck sprang up from among the
herbage on our right, and dashed off at full
speed ; but a young ranger by the name of Chil-
ders, who was on foot, levelled his .rifle, dis-
charged a ball that broke the neck of the bound-
ing deer, and sent him tumbling head-over-heels
forward. Another buck and a doe, beside sev-
eral turkeys, were killed before we came to a halt^
so that the hungry mouths of the troop were
once more supplied.
About three o'clock we encamped in a grove,
after a forced march of twenty-five miles, that
had proved a hard trial to the horses. For a
long time after the head of the line had encamped,
the rest kept straggling in, two and three at a
time ; one of our pack-horses had given out,
about nine miles back, and a pony belonging to
Beatte, shortly after. Many of the other horses
looked so gaunt and feeble^ that doubts were en-
tertained of their being able to reach the fort.
In the night thero was heavy rain, and the morn-
ing dawned . ck>udy and dismaL The camp re*
sounded, however, with something of its former
gayety. The rangers had supped well, and were
renovated in spirits, anticipating a speedy arrival
at the garrison. Before we set forward on our
mardi, Beatte returned, and brought his pony to
the canqp with great difficulty. The ^Mick-tunw^
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIMIES. 229
however^ was oompletelj knocked np, and had to
be abandoned. The wild mare, too, had east her
foal, through exhaustion, and was not in a state
to go fcMward. She and the ponj, therefore, were
left at this encampment, where there was water
and good pasturage, and where there would be
|i chance of their reviving, and being aflterwards
sought out and brought to the garrison.
We set off about eight o'clock, and had a daj
of weary and harassing travel ; part of the time
over rough hills, and part over rolling prairies.
The rain had rendered the soil slippery and
plashy, so as to afford unsteady foothold. Some
of the rangers dismounted, their horses having
no longer strength to bear them. We made a
halt in the course of the morning, but the horses
were too tired to graze. Several of them laid
down, and there was some difficulty in getting
them on their feet again. Our troop presented a
forlorn appearance, straggling slowly along, in a
broken and scattered line, that extended over hiU
and dale, for three miles and upwards, in groups
of three and four widely apart ; some on horse-
back, some on foot, with a few laggards Hbhc in the
rear. About four o'clock we halted for the night
in a spacious forest, beside a deep narrow river,
called the Little North Fork, or Deep Creek.
It was late before the main part of the troop
straggled into the encampment, many of the
horses having given out. As this stream was
too deep to be forded, we waited until the next
day to devise means to cross it; but our half*
bleeds swam the horses of our party to the other
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380 CRAYON UmCBLLANT
eide in itie evening, as they would hare better
pastnrage, and the stream was evidentlj swelling.
The night was cold and unruly ; the vmid sound-
ing hoarsely through the forest and whirling
about the cbry leaves. We made long fires of
great trunks of trees, which diffused something
of consolation if not cheerfulness around. %
The next morning there was general permis-
sion given to hunt until twelve o'clock, the camp
being destitute of provisions. The rich woody
bottom in which we were encamped abounded
with wild turkeys, of which a considerable num-
ber were killed. In the mean time, preparations
were made for crossing the river, which had risen
several feet during the night ; and it was deter-
mined to fell trees for the purpose, to serve as
bridges.
The Captain and Doctor, and one or two other
leaders of the camp, versed in woodcraft, exam-
ined with learned eye the trees growing on the
river-bank, until they singled out a couple of the
largest size, and most suitable inclinations. The
axe was then vigorously applied to their roots, in
such a way as to insure their falling directly across
the stream. As they did not reach to the opposite
bank, it was necessary for some of the men to
swim across and fell trees on the other side, to
meet them. They at length succeeded in making
a precarious footway across the deep and rapid
current, by which the baggage could be carried
over ; but it was necessary to grope our way, step
by step, along the trunks and main branches of
the trees, which for a part of the distance were
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 281
completely submerged, so that we were to our
waists in water. Most of the horses were then
swum across, but some of them were too weak to
brave the current, and evidently too much knocked
up to bear any further traveL Twelve men, there-
fore, were left at the encampment to guard these
horses, until by repose and good pasturage they
should be sufficiently recovered to complete their
Journey ; and the Captain engaged to send the
men a supply of flour and other necessaries^ as
soon as we should arrive at the Fort
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CHAPTEE XXXV.
A LOOX-ODT rOE LAND. — HABD TKAYVUJSQ AHD HUNOET EALTnrO.-->
A raoimKa vjlbm-houii.— asbxtal ax tbm oabsxson.
|T was a little after one o'clock wlien we
again resumed our weary wayfaring.
The residue of that day and the whole
of the next were spent in toilsome travel. Part
of the way was over stony hills, part across wide
prairies, rendered spongy and miry by the recent
rain, and cut up by brooks swollen into torrents.
Our poor horses were so feeble, that it was with
dijQiculty we could get them across the deep ra-
vines and turbulent streams. In traversing the
miry plains, they slipped and staggered at every
step, and most of us were obliged to dismount
and walk for the greater part of the way. Hun-
ger prevailed throughout the troop ; every one be-
gan to look anxious and haggard, and to feel the
growing length of each additional mile. At one
time, in crossing a hill, Beatte climbed a high tree
commanding a wide prospect, and took a look-out;
like a mariner from the mast-head at .sea. He
came down with cheering tidings. To the left he
had beheld a line of forest stretching across the
country, which he knew to be the woody border
of the Arkansas ; and at a distance he had reo*
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A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 288
ognised oertain landmarks, fiiom which ho coo-
daded that we oould not be above forty miles dis»
tant from the fort It was like the welcome cry
of land to tempest-tossed mariners.
In &ct we soon after saw smoke rising from a
woody glen at a distance. It was supposed to be
made by a hunting-party of Creek or Osage In-
dians firom the neighborhood of the fort, and was
joy^iUy hailed as a harbinger of man. It was
now confidently hoped that we would soon arrive
among the frontier hamlets of Creek Indians,
which are scattered along the skirts of the unin-
habited wilderness ; and our hungry rangers
trudged forward with reviving spirit regfiing
themselves with savory anticipations of farm-house
luxuries, and enumerating every article of good
cheer, .until their mouths fairly watered at the
shadowy feasts thus conjured up.
A hungry night, however, closed in upon a
toilsome day. We encamped on the border of
one of the tributary streams of the Arkansas,
amidst the ruins of a stately grove that had been
riven by a hurricane. The blast had torn its
way through the forest in a narrow column,
and its course was marked by enormous trees,
shivered and splintered, and upturned, with their
roots in the air : all lay in one direction, like so
many brittle reeds broken and trodden down by
the hunter.
Here svas fuel in abundance, without the labor
of the axe : we had soon immense fires blazing
and sparkling in the fix)sty air, and lighting up
the whole forest; but» alas I we had no meat to
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284 CRA YON MJSCELLAN T.
cook at them. The scardtj in the camp ahnost
amomited to &mine. Happy was he who had a
morsel of jerked meat, or even the half-picked
bones of a former repast For our part, we were
more lucky at our mess than our neighbors, one
of our men having shot a turkey. We had no
bread, to eat with it, nor salt to season it withaL
It was simply boiled in water; the latter was
served up as soup ; and we were fain to rub each
morsel of the turkey on the empty salt-bag, in
hopes some saline particle might remain to relieve
its insipidity.
The night was biting cold ; the brilliant moon-
light sparkled on the &osty crystals which covered
every object around us. The water froze beside
the skins on which we bivouacked, and in the
morning I found the blanket in which I was
wrapped covered with a hoar-frost; yet I had
never slept more comfortably.
After a shadow of a breakfast, consisting of
turkey-bones and a cup of coffee without sugar,
we decamped at an early hour ; for hunger is a
sharp quickener on a journey. The prairies were
all gemmed with frost, that covered the tall weeds
and glistened in the sun. We saw great flights
of prairie-hens, or grouse, that hovered from tree
to tree, or sat in rows along the naked branches,
waiting until the sun should melt the frt)St frt)m
the weeds and herbage. Our rangers no longer
despised such humble game, but turned frt)m the
ranks in pursuit of a prairie-hen as eagerly as
they formerly would go in pursuit of a deer.
Eveiy one now pushed forward, anxious to ar^
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 286
rive at some human habitation before night The
poor horses were urged beyond their strength, in
the thought of soon being able to indemnify them
for present toil by rest and ample provender,.
Still the distances seemed to stretch out more
than ever, and the blue hills, pointed out as land-
marks on the horizon, to recede as we advanced.
Every step became a labor ;- every now and then
a miserable horse would give out and lie down.
£[is owner would raise him by main strength,
force' him forward to the margin of some stream,
where there might be a scanty border of herbage,
and then abandon him to his fate. Among those
that were thus left on the way, was one of the led
horses of the Count ; a prime hunter, that had
taken the lead of everything in the chase of the
wild horses. It was intended, however, as soon
as wotjahould arrive at the fort, to send out a
party provided with com, to bring in such of the
horses as should survive.
In the course of the morning we came upon
Indian tracks, crossing each other in various di-
rections, a proof that we must be in the neigh-
borhood of human habitations. At length, on
passing through a skirt of wood, we beheld two
or three log houses, sheltered under lofty trees
on the border of a prairie, the habitations of
Creek Indians, who had small farms adjacent
Had they been sumptuous villas, abounding with
the luxuries of civilization, they could not have
been hailed with greater delight
Some of the rangers rode up to them in quest
of food ; the greater part, however, pushed for-
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£36 CRAYON MI8CELLANT.
ward in search of the habitation of a white settler,
which we were told was at no great distance.
The troop soon disappeared among the trees, and
I followed slowlj in their track; for my once
fleet and generous steed Altered under me, and
was just able to drag one foot afler the other ; yet
I was too weary and exhausted to spare him.
In this way we crept on, until, on turning a
thick chimp of trees, a frontier &rm-house sud-
denly presented itself to View. It was a low
tenement of logs, overshadowed by great forest-
trees, but it seemed as if a very region of Go-
caigne prevailed around it Here was a stable
and barn, and granaries teeming with abundance,
while legions of grunting swine, gobbling turkeys,
cackling hens and strutting roosters, swarmed
about the farm-yard.
My poor, jaded, and half-^mished horse raised
his head and pricked up his ears at the well-
known sights and sounds. He gave a chuckling
inward sound, something like a dry laugh,
whisked his tail, and made great leeway toward
a corn-crib filled with golden ears of maize ; and
it was with some difficulty that I could control
his course, and steer him up to the door of the
cabin. A single glance within was sufficient to
raise every gastronomic faculty: There sat the
Captain of the rangers and his officers, round a
three-legged table, crowned by a broad and smok-
ing dish of boiled beef and turnips. I sprang off
my horse in an instant, cast him loose to make
his way to the corn-crib, and entered this palace
of plenty. A &t good-humored negress received
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 887
me at the door. She was the mistress of the
house, the spouse of the white man, who was ab-
sent I hailed her as some swart Mrj of the
wild, that had suddenly conjured up a banquet
in the desert ; and a banquet was it in good sootL
In a twinkling, she lugged from the fire a huge
iron pot, that might have rivalled one of the
famous fiesh-pots of Egypt, or the witches' cal-
dron in Macbeth. Placing a brown earthen dish
on the floor, she inclined the corpulent caldron on
one side, and out leaped sundry great morsels of
bee^ with a regiment of turnips tumbling after
them, and a rich cascade of broth overflowing the
whole. This she handed me with an ivory smile
that extended from ear to ear; apologizing for
our humble £are, and the humble style in which
it was served up. Humble fare ! humble style I
Boiled beef and turnips, and an earthen dish to
eat them from I To think of apologizing for such
a treat to a halfnstarved man from the prairies ;
and then such magnificent slices of bread and
butter ! Head of Apidus, what a banquet !
^ The rage of hunger " being appeased, I be-
gan to think of my horse. He, however, like an
old campaigner, had taken good care of himself.
I found him paying assiduous attention to the
crib of Indian com, and dexterously drawing forth
and munching the ears that protruded between
the bars. It was with great regret that I inter-
rupted his repast, which he abandoned with a
heavy sigh, or rather a rumbling groan. I was
anxious, however, to rejoin my travelling con^>an-
ions, who had passed by the &rm-house without
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288 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
stopping, and proceeded to the banks of the Ar*
kansas, being in hopes of arriving before night
at the Osage Agency. Leaving the Captain and
his troop, therefore, amidst the abundance of the
farm, where they had determined to quarter
themselves for the night, I bade adieu to our sa-
ble hostess, and again pushed forward.
A ride of about a mile brought me to where
my comrades were waiting on the banks of the
Arkansas, which here poured along between
beautiful forests. A number of Creek Indians,
in their brightly colored dresses, looking like so
many gay tropical birds, were busy aiding our
men to transport the baggage across the river in
a canoe. While this was doing, our horses had
another regale from two great cribs heaped up
with ears of Indian com, which stood near the
edge of the river. We had to keep a check
upon the poor half -famished animals, lest they
should injure themselves by their voracity.
The baggage being all carried to the opposite
bank, we embarked in the canoe, and swam our .
horses across the river. I was fearfiil lest, in
their enfeebled state, they should not be able to
stem the current ; but their banquet of Indian
com had already inftised fresh life and spirit into
them, and it would appear as if they were
cheered by the instinctive consciousness of their
approach to home, where they would soon be at
rest, and in plentiful quarters ; for no sooner had
we landed and resumed our route, than they set
off on a hand-gallop, and continued so for a great
part of seven miles that we had to ride through
the woods.
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A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 239
It was an early hour in the evening when we
arrived at the Agency, on the banks of the Ver-
digris River, whence we had set off about a month
before. Here we passed the night comfortably
quartered ; yet, after having been accustomed to
sleep in the open air, the confinement of a cham-
ber was, in some respects, irksome. The atmos-
phere seemed dose, and destitute of freshness ;
and when I woke in the night and gazed about
me upon complete darkness, I missed the glorious
companionship of the stars.
The next nK)ming, after breakfast, I again set
forward, in company with the worthy Conmiis-
sioner, for Fort Gibson, where we arrived much
tattered, travel-stained, and weather-beaten, but in
high health and spirits. And thus ended my foray
into the Pawnee Hunting-G^unds.
16
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ABBOTSFORD.
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ABBOTSFORD.
Sir down to perform my promise of
giving you an acoomit of a visit made
manj years since to Abbotsford. I
hope, however, that you do not expect much from
me, for the travelling notes taken at the time are
BO scanty and vague, and my memory so ex-
tremely fallacious, that I fear I shall disappoint
you with the meagreness and crudeness of my
details.
Late in the evening of the 29th of August,
1817, 1 arrived at the ancient little bordeivtown
of Selkirk, where I put up for the night. I had
come down from Edinburgh, partly to visit Mel-
rose Abbey and its vicinity, but chiefly to get a
sight of the " mighty minstrel of the north." I
had a letter of introduction to him from Thomas
Campbell the poet, and had reason to think, from
the interest he had taken in some of my earlier
Bcribblings, that a visit from me would not be
deemed an intrusion.
On the following morning, after an early
breakfast, I set off in a post-chaise for the Abbey.
On the way thither I stopped at the gate of Ab-
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244 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
botoford, and sent the postilion to the house with
the letter of introduction and mj card, on which
I had written that I was on mj way to the ruins
of Melrose Abbey, and wished to know whether
it would be agreeable to Mr. Scott (he had not
yet been made a Baronet) to receive a visit from
me in the course of the morning.
While the postilion was on his errand, I had
time to survey the mansion. It stood some short
distance below the road, on the side of a hill
sweeping down to the Tweed ; and was as yet
but a snug gentleman's cottage, with something
rural and picturesque in its appearance. The
whole front was overrun with evergreens, and
immediately above the portal was a great pair
of elk-horns, branching out from beneath the fo-
liage, and giving the cottage the look of a hunt-
ing-lodge. The huge baronial pile, to which this
modest mansion in a manner gave birth, was just
emerging into existence : part of the walls, sur-
rounded by scaffolding, already had risen to the
height of the cottage, and the court-yard in front
was encumbered by masses of hewn stone.
The noise of the chaise had disturbed the
quiet of the establishment. Out sallied the war-
der of the castle, a black greyhound, and, leaping
on one of the blocks of stone, began a furious
barking. His alarum brought out the whole gar-
rison of dogs, —
" Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree; **
all open-mouthed and vociferous.——! should
correct my quotation ; — not a cur was to be seen
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ABBOTBFOHD, S4ft
oa the premises : Soott was too tnie a i^rtsman,
and had too high a veneratioii for pure blood, to
tolerate a mongreL
In a little while the '^ lord of the castle " him*
self made his appearance. I knew him at once
bj the descriptions I had read and heard, and the
likenesses that had been published of him. He
was tall, and of a large and powerful frame. His
dress was simple, and almost rustic: an old green
shooting-coat, with a dog-whistle at the button-
hole, brown linen pantaloons, stout shoes that tied
at the ankles, and a white hat that had evidentlj
seen serrice. He came limping up the gravel-
walk, aiding himself hj a stout walking-staJQT, but
moving rapidl7 and with vigor. B7 his side
jogged along a large iron-gray stag-hound of most
grave demeanor, who took no part in the clamor
of the canine rabble, but seemed to consider him-
self bound, for the dignity of the house, to give
me a courteous reception.
Before Scott had reached the gate he called
out in a hearty tone, welcoming me to Abbotsford,
and asking news of CampbelL Arrived at the
door of the chaise, he grasped me warmly by the
hand : ^' Come, drive down, drive down to the
house," said he, " ye 're just in time for breakfast,
and afterwards ye shall see all the wonders of
the Abbey.**
I would have excused myself on the plea of
having already made my breakfast. ^ Hout,
man," cried he, ^' a ride in the morning in the
keen aii of the Scotch hills is warrant enou^
for a second break^t."
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24S CBATON MISCELLANY.
I was accordingly whirled to the portal of the
eottage, and in a few moments found mjself
seated at the breakfast-table. There was no one
present but the family : which consisted of Mrs.
Scott ; her eldest daughter Sophia, then a fine girl
about seventeen ; Miss Ann Scott, two or three
years younger ; Walter, a well-grown stripling ;
and Charles, a lively boy, eleven or twelve years
of age. I soon felt myself quite at home, and
my heart in a glow with the cordial welcome I
experienced. I had thought to make a mere
morning visit, but found I was not to be let off
60 lightly. " You must not think our neighbor-
hood is to be read in a morning, like a newspa-
per," said Scott. " It takes several days of study
for an observant traveller that has a relish for
auld-world trumpery. After breakfast you shall
make your visit to Melrose Abbey ; I shall not
be able to accompany you, as I have some house-
hold affairs to attend to, but I will put you in
charge of my son Charles, who is very learned
in all things touching the old ruin and the neigh*
borhood it stands in, and he and my friend
Johnny Bower will tell you the whole truth
about it, with a good deal more that you are not
called upon to believe — unless you be a true
and nothing - doubting antiquary. When you
come back, I 'U take you out on a ramble about
the neighborhood. To-morrow we will take a
look at the Yarrow, and the next day we wiU
drive over to Dryburgh Abbey, which is a fine
old ruin well worth your seeing ; " — in a word,
before Scott had got through with his plan, I
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ABB0T8F0RD. 247
Ibund myself committed for a visit of several days,
and it seemed as if a little realm of romance was
suddenly opened before me.
After break&st I accordingly set off for the
Abbey with my little ftiend Charles, whom I
found a most sprightly and entertaining compan-^
ion. He had an ample stock of anecdote about
the neighborhood, which he had learned &om his
father, and many quaint remarks and sly jokes,
evidently derived from the same source, all which
were uttered with a Scottish accent and a mixture
of Scottish phraseology, that gave them addi-
tional flavor.
On our way to the Abbey he gave me some
anecdotes of Johnny Bower, to whom his father"
had alluded ; he was sexton of the parish and
custodian of the ruin, employed to keep it in or-
der and show it to strangers ; — a worthy little
man, not without ambition in his humble sphere.
The death of his predecessor had been mentioned
in the newspapers, so that his name had appeared
in print throughout the land. When Johnny
succeeded to the guardianship of the ruin, he
stipulated that, on his death, his name should re-
ceive like honorable blazon ; with this addition,
that it should be from the pen of Scott The
latter gravely pledged himself to pay this tribute
to his memory, and Johnny now lived in the
proud anticipation of a poetic immortality.
I found Johnny Bower a decent-looking little
old man, in blue coat and red waistcoat. He re*
ceived us with much greeting, and seemed de«
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248 CEA70N MiaCELLANT.
lighted to see my young companion, who was full
of merriment and waggery, drawing out his pe-
culiarities for my amusement The old man was
one of the most authentic and particular of cice-
rones ; he pointed out everything in the Abbey
that had been described by Scott in his ^' Lay of
the Last Minstrel " ; and would repeat, with broad
Scottish accent, the passage which celebrated it.
Thus, in passing through the cloisters, he made
me remark the beautiful carvings of leaves and
flowers wrought in stone with the most exquisite
delicacy, and, notwithstanding the lapse of cen-
turies, retaining their sharpness as if fresh from
the chisel ; rivalling, as Scott has said, the real
objects of which they were imitations, —
" Nor herb nor flowret glistened there
Bat was carved in the cloister arches as fair."
He pointed out also among the carved work a
nun's head of much beauty, which he said Scott
always stopped to admire, — " for the shirra had
a wonderful eye for all sic matters."
I would ol^erve, that Scott seemed to derive
more consequence in the neighborhood from being
sheriff of the county than from being poet.
In the interior of the Abbey, Johnny Bower
conducted me to the identical stone on which
Stout William of Deloraine and the Monk took
their seat on that memorable night when the
wizard's book was to be rescued from the grave.
Nay, Johnny had even gone beyond Scott in the
minuteness of his antiquarian research, for he had
discovered the very tomb of the wizard, the posi-
tion of which had been left in doubt by the poet<
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ABB0T8F0RD. 249
This he boasted to have ascertained bj the posi-
tion of the oriel window, and the direction in
which the moonbeams fell at night, through the
stained glass, casting the shadow to the red cross
on the spot ; as had all been specified in the poem.
" I pointed out the whole to the shirra," said he,
" and he could na' gainsay but it was varra clear.*'
I found afterwards, that Scott used to amuse
himself with the simplicity of the old man, and
his zeal in verifying every passage of the poem,
as though it had been authentic history, and that
he always acquiesced in his deductions. I sub-
join the description of the wizard's grave, which
called forth the antiquarism research of Johnny
Bower.
"Lo, warrior I now the cross of red
Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
Slow moved the monk to the broad flag-stone,
Which the bloody cross was traced upon:
He pointed to a sacred nook
An iron bar the warrior took ;
And the monk made a sign with his withered hand,
The grave's hage portal to expand.
' It was by dint of passing strength
That he moved the massy stone at length.
I would you had been there, to see
How the light broke forth so gloriously, .
Streamed upward to the chancel roof^
And through the galleries far aloof I
And, issuing firom the tomb,
Showed the monk's cowl and visage pole.
Danced on the dark brown warrior's mail,
And kissed his waving plume.
'* Before their eyes the wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
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260 ^ CRAYON lilBCELLANT.
Hifl hoary beard in silver rolled,
He seemed some seyenty winters old;
A palmer^s amice wrapped him round;
With a -wrought Spanish baldric bound,
Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea;
His left hand held his book of might;
A silver cross was in his right:
The lamp was placed beside his knee."
The fictions of Scott had become &cts with
honest Johnny Bower. From constantly living
among the ruins of Melrose Abbey, and pointing
out the scenes of the poem, the '' Lay of the Last
Minstrel " had, in a manner, become interwoven
with his whole existence, and I doubt whether he
did not now and then mix up his own identity
with the personages of some of its cantos.
He could not bear that any other production
of the poet should be preferred to the " Lay of the
Last Minstrel." " Faith," said he to me, « it 's
just e*en as gude a thing as Mr. Scott has written
— an' if he were stannin' there I'd tell him so —
an' then he'd lauff."
He was loud in his praises of the affability of
Scott. " He '11 come here sometimes," said he,
" with great folks in his company, an' the first I
know of it is his voice, calling out Johnny ! —
Johnny Bower ! — and when I go out, I am sure
to be greeted with a joke or a pleasant word.
He '11 stand and crack and lauff wi' me, just like
an auld wife — and to think that of a man that
has such an awfu' knowledge o' history ! "
One of the ingenious devices on which the
worthy little man prided himself, was to place a
visitor opposite to the Abbey, with his ba<i to it.
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ABBOTaFOMD. 251
and bid him bend down and look at it between
his legs. This, ho said, gave an entire different
aspect to the ruin. Folks admired the plan
amazingly, but as to the "leddies," they were
dainty on the matter, and contented themselves
with looking fix>m under their arms.
As Johnny Bower piqued himself upon show-
ing everything laid down in the poem, there was
one passage that perplexed him sadly. It was
the opening of one of the cantos :
^* If thou wouldst view fiur Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
end but to flout the ruins gray," &c.
In consequence of this admonition, many of
the most devout pilgrims to the ruin could not be
contented with a daylight inspection, and insisted
it could be nothing, unless seen by the light of the
moon. Now, unfortunately, the moon shines but
for a part of the month ; and what is still more un-
fi>rtunate, is very apt in Scotland to be obscured
by clouds and mists. Johnny was sorely puzzled,
therefore, how to accommodate his poetry-struck
visitors with this indispensable moonshine. At
length, in a lucky moment, he devised a substitute.
This was a great double tallow candle, stuck upon
the end of a pole, with which he could conduct his
visitors about the ruins on dark nights, so much
to their satis&ction that, at length, he began to
think it even preferable to the moon itself. ^ It
does na light up a' the Abbeyataince,tobe sure,''
he would say, ^ but then you can shift it about and
show the auld ruin bit by bit, whiles the moon
only shines on one side."
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262 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
Honest Johnny Bower! so many years have
elapsed since the time I treat of, that it is more
than probable his simple head lies beneath the
waUs of his favorite Abbey. It is to be hoped
his humble ambition has been gratified, and his
name recorded by the pen of the man he so loved
and honored.
After my return from Melrose Abbey, Scott
proposed a ramble to show me something of the
surrounding country. As we sallied forth, every
dog in the establishment turned out to attend us.
There was the old stag-hound Maida, that I have
already mentioned, a noble animal, and a great
favorite of Scott's ; and Hamlet, the black grey-
hound, a wild thoughtless youngster, not yet ar-
lived to the years of discretion ; and Finette,
a beautiful setter, with soft silken hair, long
pendent ears, and a n^ild eye, the parlor &vorite.
When in front of the house, we were joined by a
superannuated greyhound, who came from the
kitchen wagging his tail, and was cheered by
Scott as an old friend and comrade.
In our walks, Scott would frequently pause in
conversation to notice his dogs and speak to them,
as if rational companions ; and indeed there ap-
pears to be a vast deal of rationality in these
faithfiil attendants on man, derived from their
dose intimacy with him. Maida deported him-
self with a gravity becoming his age and size, and
seemed to consider himself called upon to pre-
serve a great d^:ree of dignity and decorum in onr
fiodety. As he jogged along a little distance ahead
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ABB0T8F0RD. 253
<rf US, the young dogs would gambol about liim,
leap <»i his neck, worry at his ears, and endeavor
to tease him into a fix>lic The old dog would
keep on for a long time with imperturbable so-
lenmity, now and then seeming to rebuke the
wantonness of his young companions. At length
he would make a sudden turn, seize one of them,
and tumble him in the dust ; then giving a glance
at us, as much as to say, << You see, gentlemen, I
can't help giving way to this nonsense," would re-
sume his gravity and jog on as before.
Scott amused himself with these peculiarities.
^I make no doubt,*^ said he, ^when Maida is
alone with these young dogs, he throws gravity
aside, and plays the boy as much as any of them ;
but he is ashamed to do so in our company, and
seems to say, ' Ha' done with your nonsense,
youi^ters; what will the laird and that other
gentleman think of me if I give way to such
foolery?'"
Maida reminded him, he said, of a scene on
board an armed yacht in which he made an ex-
cursion with his friend Adam Ferguson. They
had taken much notice of the boatswain, who was
a fine sturdy seaman, and evidently felt flattered
by their attention. On one occasion the crew
were '^ piped to fun," and the sailors were dan-
cing and cutting all kinds of capers to the music
of the ship's band. The boatswain looked oa
with a wistful eye, as if he would like to join in ;
bat a glance at Scott and Ferguson showed that
there was a strug^e with his dignity, fearing to
leflsenhimaelf in their eyes. At length one of his
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254 CRAYON MJSCJELLANT.
messmates came up, and, seizing bim by the arm,
challenged him to a jig. The boatswain, contin-
ued Scott, after a little hesitation complied, made
an awkward gambol or two, like our friend Maids,
but soon gave it up. '^ It 's of no use," said he,
jerking up his waistband and ^ving a side-glance
at us, '^ one can't dance always nouther."
Scott amused himself with the peculiarities of
another of his dogs, a little shamefaced terrier,
with large glassy eyes, one of the most sensitive
little bodies to insult and indignity in the world.
If ever he whipped him, he said, the little fellow
would sneak off and hide himself from the light
of day, in a lumber-garret, whence there was no
drawing him forth but by the sound of the chop-
ping-knife, as if chopping up his victuals, when he
would steal forth with humbled and downcast
look, but would skulk away again if any one re-
garded him.
While we were discussing the humors and pe-
culiarities of our canine companions, some object
provoked their spleen, and produced a sharp and
petulant barking from the smaller fry, but it was
some time before. Maida was sufficiently aroused
to ramp forward two or three bounds and join in
the chorus, with a deep-mouthed bow-wow I
It was but a transient outbreak, and he re-
turned instantly, wagging his tail, and looking up
dubiously in his master's face ; uncertain whether
he would censure or applaud.
"Aye, aye, old boy ! " cried Scott, « you have
done wonders. You have shaken the Eildon hills
with your roaring ; you may now lay by your
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ABB0T8F0RJ). SU
ATtilleiy for the rest of the day. Maida 19 like
the great gim at Constantinople," continued he ;
*^ it takes so long to get it ready, that the small
guns can fire off a dozen times first, but when it
does go off it plays the very d — ^L"
These simple anecdotes may serve to show the
delightful play of Scott's humors and feelings in
private life. His domestic animals were his
fiiends ; everything about him seemed to rejoice
in the light of his countenance : the &ce of the
humblest dependant brightened at his approach,
as if he anticipated a cordial and cheering word.
I had occasion to observe this particularly in a
visit which we paid to a quarry, whence several
men were cutting stone for the new edifice ; who
all paused from their labor to have a pleasant
** crack wi' the laird." One of them was a bur-
gess of Selkirk, with whom Scott had some joke
about the old song, —
" Up with the Sonters o* Selldrk,
And down with the Earl of Home."
Another was precentor at the Eark, and, beside
leading the psalmody on Sunday, taught the lads
and lasses of the neighborhood dancing on week*
days, in the winter-time, when out-of-door labor
was scarce.
Among the rest was a tall, straight old fellow,
with a healthful complexion and silver hair, and
a small round-crowned white hat. He had been
about to shoulder a hod, but paused, and stood
looking at Scott, with a sHght sparkling of his
blue eye, as if waiting his turn ; for the old fel-
low knew himself to be a favorite.
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256 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
Soott accosted bim in an affable tone^ and
asked for a pinch of snuff. The old man drew
forth a hom snuff-box. ** Hoot, man," said Scott,
^ not that old mull : where 's the bonnie French
one that I brought you from Paris ? " — " Troth,
your honor," replied the old fellow, " sic a mull
as that is nae for week-days."
On leaving the quarry, Scott informed me that
when absent at Paris, he had purchased several
trifling articles as presents for his dependants,
and among others the gay snuff-box in question,
which was so carefiilly reserved for Sundays by
the veteran. ^ It was not so much the value of
the gifts," said he, ^ that pleased them, as the idea
that the laird should think of them when so &r
away."
The old man in question, I 'found, was a great
fiivorite with Scott If I recollect right, he had
been a soldier in early life, and his straight, erect
person, his ruddy yet rugged countenance, his
gray hair, and an arch gleam in his blue eye, re-
minded me of the description of Edie Ochiltree.
I find that the old fellow has since been intro-
duced by Wilkie, in his picture of the Scott
fiunily.
We rambled on among scenes which had been
familiar in Scottish song, and rendered classic by
the pastoral muse, long before Scott had thrown
the rich mantle of his poetry over them. What
a thrill of pleasure did I feel when first I saw
the broom-covered tops of the Cowden Knowes,
peeping above the gray hills of the Tweed ; and
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ABBOTBFORD. 267
what toncbuig associations were called up by the
sight of Ettrick Yale, Galla Water, and the Braes
of Yarrow I Every turn brought to mind some
househola air — some almost forgotten song of
the nursery, by which I had been lulled to sleep
in my childhood ; and with them the looks and
voices of those who had sung them, and who
were now no more. It is these melodies, chanted
in our ears in the days of infancy, and connected
with the memory of those we have loved, and
who have passed away, that clothe Scottish land-
scape with such tender associations. The Scot-
tish songs, in general, have something intrinsically
melancholy in them; owing, in all probability,
to the pastoral and lonely life of those who com-
posed them ; who were often mere shepherds,
tending their flocks in the solitary glens, or fold-
ing them among the naked hills. Many of these
rustic bards have passed away, without leaving a
name behind them ; nothing remains of them but
their sweet and touching songs, which live, like
echoes, about the places they once inhabited.
Most of these simple effiisions of pastoral poets
are linked with some favorite haunt of the poet ;
and in this way, not a mountain or valley, a town
or tower, green shaw or running stream, in Scot-
land, but has some popular air connected with it,
that makes its very name a key-note to a whole
train of delicious fancies and feelings.
Let me step forward in time, and mention how
sensible I was to the power of these simple airs,
in a visit which I made to Ayr, the birthplace of
Robert Bums. I passed a whole morning about
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268 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
^ the banks and braes of bonnie Boon,** with big
tender little love-verses running in my bead. I
found a poor Scotch carpenter at work c^ong the
ruins of Kirk Alloway, which was to be am*
verted into a school-house. Finding the purpose
of my visit, he left his work, sat down with me
on a grassy grave, dose by where Bums' father
was buried, and talked of the poet, whom he had
known personally. He scud his songs were fa-
miliar to the poorest and most illiterate of the
country folk, ^coid it seemed to Mm as if ^
couTUry had grown more heautifui since Bams
had written his honnie liide songs about it."
I found Scott was quite an enthusiast on the
subject of the popular songs of his countiy, and
he seemed gratified to find me so alive to them.
Their effect in calling up in my mind the recol-
lections of early times and scenes in whidi I had
first heard them, reminded him, he said, of the
lines of his poor fiiend, Leyden, to the Scottish
Muse : —
*' In yoaih*8 first mom, alert and gay,
Ere rolling years had passed away,
Remembered like a morning dream,
I heard the dulcet measures float,
In many a liquid winding note,
Along the bank of Teviot's stream.
** Sweet sounds I that oft have soothed to rest
The sorrows of my guileless breast,
And charmed away mine infant tears ;
Fond memory shall your strains repeat,
like distant echoes, doubly sweet,
That on the wild the traveller hears."
Scott went on to expatiate on the popular
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ABBOTBFORD. 259
MDgs of Scotland. ^ They are a part of our na-
tional inheritance," said he, '< and something that
we may truly call our own. They have no for-
eign taint ; they have the pure breath of the
heather and the mountain breeze. All the gen-
uine legitimate races that have descended from
the ancient Britons, such as the Scotch, the
Welsh, and the Irish, have national airs. The
.English have none, because they are not natives
of the soil, or, at leasts are mongrels. Their
music IS all made up of foreign scraps, like a
harlequin jacket^ or a piece of mosaic. Even in
Scotland we have comparatively few national
songs in the eastern part, where we have had
most influx of strangers. A real old Scottish
song is a cairn gorm — a gem of our own moun-
tains ; or, rather, it is a precious relic of old times,
that bears the national character stamped upon
it, — hke a cameo, that shows what the national
visage was in former days, before the breed was
crossed."
While Scott was thus discoursing, we were
passing up a narrow glen, with the dogs beating
about, to right and left, when suddenly a black
cock burst up<m the wing.
"Aha!" cried Scott, "there will be a good
shot for master Walter ; we must send him this
way with his gun, when we go home. Walter 's
the &mily sportsman now, and keeps us in game.
I have pretty nigh resigned my gun to him ; for
I And I cannot trudge about as briskly as for-
jaerly."
Our ramble took us on the hills commanding
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260 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
an extensive prospect <Now," said Scott, ^\
have brought you, like the pilgrim in the * Pil-
grim's Progress/ to the top of the Delectable
Mountains, that I may show you ail the gooldly
regions hereabouts. Yonder is Lammermuir, and
Smalholme ; and there you have Gallashiels, and
Torwoodlie, and Gallawater ; and in that direction
you see Teviotdale, and the Braes of Yarrow ;
and Ettrick stream, winding along, like a silver
thread, to throw itself into the Tweed."
He went on thus to (sdl over names celebrated
in Scottish song, and most of which had recently
received a romantic interest from his own pen. La
fact, I saw a great part of the border country
spread out before me, and could trace the scenes
of those poems and romances which had, in a
manner, bewitched the world. I gazed about tne
for a time with mute surprise, I may almost say
with disappointment. I beheld a mere succession
of gray waving hills, line beyond line, as far as
my eye could reach ; monotonous in their aspect,
and so destitute of trees that one could almost
see a stout fly walking along their profile ; and
the far-famed Tweed appeared a naked stream,
flowing between bare hills, without a tree or
thicket on its banks ; and yet, such had been the
magic web of poetry and romance thrown over
the whole, that it had a greater charm for me
than the richest scenery I beheld in England,
I could not help giving utterance to my
thoughts. Scott hummed for a moment to him-
self, and looked grave ; he had no idea of having
his muse complimented at the expense of his na-
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ABBOTS FORD. 261
tive hills. "It may be partiality,** said he, at
length ; <' but to my eye these gray hills and all
this wild border country have beauties peculiar
to themselves. I like the very nakedness of the
land ; it has something bold, and stem, and soli-
tary about it. When I have been for some time
in the rich scenery about Edinburgh, which is
like ornamented garden-land, I begin to wish my-
self back again among my own honest gray hills ;
and if I did not see the heather at least once a
year, / think I should die / "
The last words were said with an honest
warmth, accompanied with a thump on the ground
with his staff, by way of emphasis, that showed
his heart was in his speech. He vindicated the
Tweed, too, as a beautiful stream in itself, and
observed that he did not dislike it for being bare
of trees, probably from having been much of an
angler in his time, and an angler does not like to
have a stream overhung by trees, which embarrass
him in the exercise of his rod and line.
I took occasion to plead, in like manner, the
associations of early life, for my disappointment
in respect to the surrounding scenery. I had
been so accustomed to hills crowned with forests,
and streams breaking their way through a wil-
derness of trees, that aU my ideas of romantic
landscape were apt to be well wooded.
" Aye, and that 's the great charm of your
country," cried Scott ^ You love the forest as
I do the heather, — but I would not have you
think I do not feel the glory of a great woodland
prospect. There is nothing I should like more
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262 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
than to l>e in the midst of one of your grand,
wild, original forests : with the idea of hundreds
of miles of untrodden forest around me. I once
saw, at Leith, an immense stick of timber, just
landed firom America. It must have been an
enormous tree when it stood on its native soil, at
its full height, and with aU its branches. I gazed
at it with admiration ; it seemed like one of the
gigantic obelisks which are now and then brought
irom Egypt, to shame the pigmy monuments of
Europe ; and, in £su;t, these vast aboriginal trees,
that have sheltered the Indians before the intru-
sion of the white men, are the monuments and
antiquities of your coimtry.*'
The conversation here turned upon Campbell's
poem of " Gertrude of Wyoming," as illustrative
of the poetic materials fiirnished by American
scenery. Scott spoke of it in that liberal style
in which I always found him to speak of the
writings of his contemporaries. He cited several
passages of it with great delight " What a pity
it is," said he, ^that Campbell does not write
more and ofi;ener, and give full sweep to his gen-
ius. He has wings that would bear him to the
skies ; and he does now and then spread them
grandly, but folds them up again and resumes his
perch, as if he was afraid to launch away. He
don't know or won't trust his own strength.
Even when he has done a thing well, he has
often misgivings about it. He left out several
fine passages of his ^ Lochiel,' but I got him to
restore some of them." Here Scott repeated sev-
eral passages in a magnificent style. " What a
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ABBOTBFORD. 2fi8
grand id6a is that^" said he, ^ about prophetie
boding, or, in common parlance, second sight, —
*> Commg events cast tibeir shadows before.'
It is a noble thought, and nobly expressed. And
there 's that glorious little poem, too, of * Hohen-
linden ' ; after he had written it, he did not seem
to think much of it, but considered some of it
* d— d drum and trumpet lines.' I got him to
recite it to me, and I believe that the deligfeN/ 1 felt
and expressed had an effect in inducing him to
print it The fact is," added he, " Campbell is,
in a manner, a bugbear to himself. The bright-
ness of his early success is a detriment to all his
further efforts. He is afraid of the shadow that
his own fame casts before himT
While we were thus chatting, we heard the
report of a gun among the hills. ^ That 's Wal-
ter, I think," said Scott; <<he has finished his
morning's studies, and is out with lus gun. I
should not be surprised if he had met with the
black cock ; if so, we shall have an addition to
our larder, for Walter is a pretty sure shot."
I inquired into the nature of Walter's studies.
^ Faith," said Scott, <<I can't say much on that
head. I am not over-bent upon making prodigies
of any of my children. As to Walter, I taught
him, while a boy, to ride, and shoot, and speak
the truth ; as to the other parts of his education,
I leave them to a very worthy young man, the
son of one of our dergjrmen, who instructs all
my children."
I afterwards became acquainted with the young
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264 CRATON MISCELLANY.
man in question, George Thomson, son of the
minister of Melrose, and found him possessed of
much learning, intelligence, and modest worth.
He used to come every day fh)m his father's res-
idence at Melrose, to superintend the studies of
the young folks, and occasionally took his meals
at Abbotsford, where he was highly esteemed.
Nature had cut him out, Scott used to say, for a
stalwart soldier; for he was tall, vigorous, active,
and fiHid of athletic exercises ; but accident had
marred her work, the loss of a limb in boyhood
having reduced him to a wooden leg. He was
brought up, therefore, for the church, whence he
was occasionally called the Dominie, and is sup-
posed, by his mixture of learning, simplicity, and
amiable eccentricity, to have furnished many
traits for the character of Dominie Sampson. I
believe he often acted as S«ott's amanuensis, when
composing his novels. With him the young peo-
ple were occupied, in general, during the early
part of the day, after which they took all kin^
of healthM recreations in the open air ; for Scott
was as solicitous to strengthen their bodies as
their minds.
We had not walked much ftirther before we
saw the two Miss Scotts ^vancing along the hill-
side to meet us. The morning's studies being
over, they had set off to take a ramble on the
hills, and gather heather-blossoms with which to
decorate their hair for dinner. As they came
bounding lightly like young &wns, and their
dresses fluttering in the pure summer breeze, I
fvas reminded of Scott's own description of his
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ABBOT8F0BD. 265
children in bis introduction to one of the cantos
of " JMarmion," —
** My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild,
As best befits the mountain-child,
Their summer gambols tell and mourn,
And anxious ask will spring return,
And birds and lambs again be gay.
And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray?
" Yes, prattlers, yes, the daisy's flower
Again shall paint your summer bower;
Again the hawthorn shall supply
The garlands you delight to tie ;
The lambs upon the lea shall bound,
The wild birds carol to the round.
And while you frolic light as they.
Too short shall seem the summer day.*'
As they approached, the dogs all sprang forward
and gambolled around them. They played with
them for a time, and then joined us with counte-
nances full of health and glee. Sophia, the el-
dest, was the most lively and joyous, having much
of her father^s varied spirit in conversation, and
seeming to catch excitement horn his words and
looks. Ann was of quieter mood, rather silent,
owing, in some measure, no doubt, to her being
some years younger.
At dinner, Scott had laid by his half rustic
dress, and appeared dad in black. The girls, too,
in completing their toilet, had twisted in their
hair the sprigs of purple heather which they had
gathered on the hill-side, and looked all fresh and
blooming from their breezy walk.
There was no guest at dinner but myselfi
Around the table were two or three dogs in at-
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iW CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
teadaace. Maida, the old stag-hound, took hia
Beat at Scott's elbow, looking up wistfiilly in hia
master's eye, while Finette, the pet spaniel placed
herself near Mrs. Soott, by whom, I soon perceived,
she was completely spoiled.
The conversation happening to turn on the
merits of his dogs, Soott spoke with great feeling
and affection of his favorite, Camp, who is de-
picted by his side in the earlier engravings of him.
He talked of him as of a real Mend whom he
had lost ; and Sophia Scott, looking up archly
in his &ce, observed that papa shed a few tears
when poor Camp died. I may here mention an-
other testimonial of Scott's fondness for his dogs,
and his humorous mode of showing it, which I
subsequently met with. Rambling with him one
morning about the grounds adjacent to the house,
I observed a small antique monument, on which
was inscribed, in Gothic characters, —
" Cy git le preux Percy."
(Here lies the brave Percy.)
I paused, supposing it to be the tomb of some stark
warrior of the olden time, but Scott drew me on.
••' Pooh ! " cried he, " it 's nothing but one of the
monuments of my nonsense, of which you '11 find
enough hereabouts." I learnt afterwards that it
was the grave of a favorite greyhound.
Among the other important and privileged mem-
bers of the household who figured in attendance
at the dinner, was a large gray cat, who, I ob-
served, was regaled from time to time with titbits
from the table. This sage .grimalkin was a favor-
ite of both master and mistress, and slept at night
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ABB0T8F0BD. 2WT
in tbeir room ; and Scott laughingly observed, that
one of the least wise parts of their establishment
was, that the window was left open at night for
puss to go in and out. The eat assumed a kind
of ascendency among the quadrupeds — sitting in
state in Scott's arm-chair, and occasi(mall7 station-
ii^ himself on a chair beside the door, as if to re-
view his subjects as they passed, giving each dog
a cuff beside the ears as he went by. This dap-
per-dawing was ^ ways taken in good part ; it ap-
peared to be, in fact, a mere act of sovereignty on
the part of grimalkin, to remind the others of their
vassalage ; which they acknowledged by the most
perfect acquiescence. A general harmony pre-
vailed between sovereign and subjects, and they
would all sleep together in the sunshine.
Scott If as full of anecdote and conversation
during dinner. He made some admirable re-
marks upon the Scottish character, and spoke
strongly in praise of the quiet, orderly, honest
conduct of his neighbors, which one would hardly
expect, said he, from the descendants of moss-
troopers and borderers, in a neighborhood famed
in old times for brawl and feud, and violence of
all kinds. He said he had, in his official capacity
of sheriff, administered the laws for a number of
years, during which there had been very few
trials. The old feuds and local interests, and
rivalries, and animosities of the Scotch, however,
still slept, he said, in their ashes, and might easily
be roused. Their hereditary feeling for names
was still great. It was not always safe to have
even the game of foot-ball between villages, the
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268 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
old dannish spirit was too apt to break ont The
Sootdi, he said, were more revenge^l than the
English; they carried their resentments longer,
and would sometimes lay them by for years, but
would be sure to gratify them in tfie end.
The ancient jealousy between the Highlanders
and the Lowlanders still continued to a certain
degree, the former looking upon the latter as an
inferior race, less brave and hardy, but at the
same time suspecting them of a disposition to
take airs upon themselves under the idea of su-
perior refinement. This made them techy and
ticklish company for a stranger on his first coming
among them ; ruffling up and putting themselves
upon their mettle on the slightest occasion, so that
he had in a manner to quarrel and fight his way
into their good graces.
He instanced a case in point in a brother of
Mungo Park, who went to take up his residence
in a wild neighborhood of the Highlands. He
soon found himself considered as an intruder, and
that there was a disposition among these cocks
of the hills to fix a quarrel on him, trusting that,
being a Lowlander, he would show the white
feather.
For a time he bore their flings and taunts with
great coolness, until one, presuming on his forbear-
ance, drew forth a dirk, and holding it before him,
asked him if he had ever seen a weapon like that
in Ms part of the country. Park, who was a
Hercules in frame, seized the dirk, and, with one
blow, drove it through an oaken table. " Yes,"
replied he, '^ and tell your friends that a man from
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ABBOTSFOED. 269
the Lowlands drove it where the devil himself
cannot draw it out again." All persons were de-
lighted with the feat, and the words that accom-
panied it. They drank with Park to a better ac-
quaintance, and were stanch friends ever after-
wards.
After dinner we adjourned to the drawing-room,
which served also for study and library. Against
the wall on one side was a long writing-table,
with drawers ; surmounted by a small cabinet of
polished wood, with folding-doors richly studded
with brass ornaments, within which Scott kept
liis most valuable papers. Above the cabinet, in
a kind of niche, was a complete corselet of glitter-
ing steel, with a closed helmet, and flanked by
gauntlets and battle-axes. Around were hung
trophies and relics of various kinds : a cimeter
of Tippoo Saib; a Highland broadsword from
Floddenfield ; a pair of Rippon spurs from Ban-
nockburn, and above all, a gun which had be-
longed to Bob Boy, and bore his initials, R. M.
G., — an object of peculiar interest to me at the
time, as it was understood Scott was actually en-
gaged in printing a novel founded on the story of
that famous outlaw.
On each side of the cabinet were bookcases,
well stored with works of romantic fiction in vari-
ous languages, many of them rare and antiquated.
This, however, was merely his cottage library, the
principal part of his books being at Edinburgh.
From this little cabinet of curiosities Scott
drew forth a manuscript picked up on the field
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t70 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
of Waterloo, oontaining oopies of several songs
popular at the time in France. The paper was
dabbled with blood — " the very life-blood, very
poflsiWy," said Scott, ^ of some gay young officer,
who had cherished these songs as a keepsake
from some lady-love in Paris."
He adverted in a mellow and delightfol man-
ner to the little half gay, half melancholy cam-
paigning song, said to have been composed by
General Wolfe, and sung by him at the mess-
table, on the eve of the storming of Quebec, in
which he fell so gloriously.
"Why, soldiers, why,
Should we be melancholy, boys?
Why, soldiers, why,
Whose business *t is to die!
For should next campaign
Send us to him who made us, boys,
We *re free firom pain :
But should we remain,
A bottle and kind landlady
Makes all well again."
« So," added he, " the poor lad who feU at Wa-
terloo, in all probability, had been singing these
songs in his tent the night before the battle, and
-thinking of the fair dame who had taught him
them, and promising himself, should be outlive
the campaign, to return to her all glorious from
the wars."
I find since that Scott published translations
of these songs among some of his smaller poems.
The evening passed away delightfully in this
quaint-looking apartment, half study, hcdf draw-
ing-room. Scott read several passages frx>m tho old
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ABB0T8F0RD. 271
romance of Arthur, with a fine deep sonorous
YoicCy and a gravity of tone that seemed to suit
the antiquated, black-letter volume. It was a
rich treat to hear such a work, read by such a
person, and in such a place ; and his appearance
as he sat reading, in a large armed chair, with
his favorite hound Maida at his feet, and sur-
rounded by books and relics, and border trophies,
would have -formed an admirable and most char-
acteristic picture.
While Scott was reading, the sage grimalkin
already mentioned had taken his seat in* a chair
beside the fire, and remained with fixed eye and
grave demeanor, as if lisfciing to the reader. I
observed to Scott that his cat seemed to have a
black-letter taste in literature.
" Ah," said he, " these cats are a very myste-
rious kind of folk. There is always more passing
m their minds than we are aware of. It comes
no doubt from their being so familiar with
witches and warlocks." He went on to tell a
little story about a gude man who was returning
to his cottage one night, when, in a lonely out-of-
the-way place, he met with a funeral procession
of cats idl in mourning, bearing one of their rao»
to the grave in a cofl5n covei'ed with a black vel-
vet pall. The worthy man, astonished and half
frightened at so strange a pageant, hastened home
and told what he had seen t(^ his wife and chil-
dren. Scarce had he finished, when a great black
cat that sat beside the fire raised himself up, ex-
claimed '< Then I am king of the cats I ** and
vanished up the chimney. The funeral seen by
the gude man was one of the cat dynasty.
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272 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
"Our grimalkin here," added Scott, "some-
times reminds me of the story, by the airs of
sovereignty which he assumes ; and I am apt to
treat him with respect irom the idea that he may
be a great prince incog., and may some time or
other come to the throne/'
In this way Scott would make the habits and
peculiarities of even the dumb animab about him
subjects for humorous remark or whimsical story.
Our evening was enlivened also by an occa-
sional song from Sophia Scott, at the request of
her father. She never wanted to be asked twice,
but complied frankly and cheerRilly. Her songs
were aU Scotch, sung \^hout aay accompaniment,
in a simple manner, but with great spirit and ex-
pression, and in their native dialects, which gave
them an additional charm. It was delightful to
hear her carol off in sprightly style, and with an
animated air, some of those generous-spirited old
Jacobite songs, once current among the adherents
of the Pretender in Scotland, in which he is
designated by the appellation of "The YOung
Chevalier."
These songs were much relished by Scott, not-
withstanding his loyalty; for the unfortunate
" Chevalier " has always been a hero of romance
with him, as he has with many other stanch ad-
herents to the House of Hanover, now that the
Stuart line has . los| all its terrors. In speaking
on the subject, Scott mentioned as a curious &ct,
that, among the papers of the " Chevalier," which
had been submitted by government to his inspec-
tion, he had found a memorial to Charles from
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ABB0T8F0RD, 278
some adherents in America, dated 1778, propos«
ing to set up his standard in the back settlements.
I regret that^ at the time, I did not make more
particular inquiries of Scott on the subject ; the
document in question, however, in all probability,
still exists among the Pretender's papers, -which
ai-e in the possession of the British Gk>vemment.
In the course of the evening, Scott related the
story of a whimsical picture hanging in the room,
which had been drawn for him by a lady of his
acquaintance. It represented the doleful perplex-
ity of a wealthy and handsome young English
knight of the olden time, who, in the course of a
border foray, had been caf tured and carried off
to the castle of a hard-headed and high-handed
old baron. The unfortunate youth was thrown
into a dungeon, and a tall gallows erected before
the castle-gate for his execution. When all was
ready, he was brought into the castle-hall, where
the grim baron was seated in state, with his war-
riors armed to the teeth around him, and was
given his choice, either to swing on the gibbet or
to marry the baron's daughter. The last may be
thought an easy alternative, but, unfortunately,
the baron's young lady was hideously ugly, with
a mouth from ear to ear, so that not a suitor was
to be had for her, either for love or money, and
she was known throughout the border country by
the name of Muckle-mouthed Mag ! .
The picture in question represented the un-
happy dilemma of the handsome youth. Before
him sat the grim baron, with a feee worthy of
the &ther of such a daughter, and looking dag«
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274 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
gers and ratsbane. On one side of him was
Muckle-monthed Mag, with an amorous snule
across the whole breadth of her countenance, and
a leer enough to turn a man to stone ; on the
other side was the father confessor, a sleek friar,
jogging the youth's elbow, and pointing to the
gallows, seen in perspective through the open
portal
The story goes, that, after long laboring in mind
between the altar and the halter, the love of life
prevailed, and the youth resigned himself to the
charms of Muckle-mouthed MJag. Contrary to all
the probabilities of romance, the match proved a
happy one. The baron's daughter, if not beauti-
ful, was a most exemplary wife ; her husband was
never troubled with any of those doubts and jeal-
ousies which sometimes mar the happiness of
connubial life, and was made the father of a &ir
and undoubtedly legitimate line, which still flour-
ishes on the border.
I give but a faint outline of the story from
vague recollection; it may, perchance, be more
richly related elsewhere, by some one who may
retain something of the delightful humor with
which Scott recounted it.
When I retired for the night,! found it almost
impossible to sleep ; the idea of being under the
roof of Scott, of being on the borders of the
Tweed, in the very centre of that region which
had for some time past been the favorite scene of
romantic fiction, and above all the recollections
of the ramble I had taken, the company in which
I had taken it, and the conversation which had
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.ABBOTaFORD. 276
passed, all fermented in my mind^ and nearly
drove sleep from my pillow.
On the following morning the sun darted his
beams &om over the hills through the low lattioe
window. I rose at an early hour, and looked out
between the branches of eglantine which over-
hung the casement. To my surprise Scott was
already up and forth, seated on a fragment of
stone, and chatting with the workmen employed
on the new building. I had supposed, after the
time he had wasted upon me yesterday, he would
be closely occupied this morning; but he ap-
peared like a man of leisure, who had nothing to
do but bask in the sunshine and amuse himself.
I soon dressed myself and joined him. He
talked about his proposed plans of Abbotsford:
happy would it have been for him could he have
contented himself with his delightful little vine-
covered cottage, and the simple yet hearty and
hospitable style in which he lived at the time of
my visit. The great pile of Abbotsford, with
the huge expense it entailed upon him, of ser-
vants, retainers, guests, and baronial style, was a
drain upon his purse^ a tax upon his exertions,
and a weight upon his mind, that finally crushed
him.
As yet, however, all was in embryo and per-
spective, and Scott pleased himself with picturing
out his future residence, as he would one of the
fimciful creations of his own romances. ^ It was
one of his air-castles,*' he said, " which he was
reducing to solid stone and mortar." About the
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276 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
place were strewed various morsels from the nuDS
of Melrose Abbey, which were to be incorporated
in his mansion. He had already constructed out
of similar materials a kind of Gk>thic shrine over
a spring, and had surmounted it by a small stone
cross.
Among the relics fix)m the Abbey which lay
scattered before us, was a most quaint and an-
tique little lion, either of red stone, or painted red,
which hit my fancy. I forget whose cognizance
it was; but I shall never forget the delightful
observations concerning old Melrose to which it
accidentally gave rise.
The Abbey was evidently a pile that called up
all Scott's poetic and romantic feelings ; and one
to which he was enthusiastically attached by the
most fanciful and delightful of his early associa-
tions. He spoke of it, I may say, with affection.
" There is no telling," said he, " what treasures
are hid in that glorious old pile. It is a famous
place for antiquarian plunder ; there are such rich
bits of old-time sculpture for the architect, and old-
time story for the poet. There is as rare picking
in it as in a Stilton cheese, and in the same taste
— the mouldier the better."
He went on to mention circumstances of
** mighty import " connected with the Abbey, which
had never been touched, and which had even
escaped the researches of Johnny Bower. The
heart of Bobert Bruce, the hero of Scotland, had
been buried in it He dwelt on the beautlM
story of Bruce's pious and chivalrous request in
his dying hour, that his heart might be oyped to
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ABBOTSFORD, 277
the H0I7 Land and placed in the H0I7 SepulchrCi
in fulfilment of a vow of pilgrimage ; and of the
loyal expedition of Sir James Douglas to convey
the glorious relic. Much might be made, he said,
out of the adventures of Sir James in that ad-
venturous age ; of his fortunes in Spain, and his
death in a crusade against the Moors ; with the
subsequent fortunes of the heart of Robert Bruce
until it was brought back to its native land, and
enshrined within the holy walls of old Melrose.
As Scott sat on a stone talking in this way,
and knocking with his staff against the little red
lion which lay prostrate before him, his gray eyes
twinkled beneath his shagged eyebrows ; scenes,
images, incidents, kept breaking upon his mind as
he proceeded, mingled with touches of the mys-
terious and supernatural as connected with the
heart of Bruce. It seemed as if a poem or ro-
mance were breaking vaguely on his imagination.
That he subsequently contemplated something of
the kind, as connected with this subject, and with
his favorite ruin of Melrose, is evident from his
introduction to " The Monastery " ; and it is a pity
that he never succeeded in following out these
shadowy but enthusiastic conceptions.
A summons to breakfast broke off our conver-
sation, when I begged to recommend to Scott's
attention my friend the little red lion, who had
led to such jui interesting topic, and hoped he
might receive some niche or station in the future
cattle, worthy of his evident antiquity and appar-
ent dignity. Scott assured me, with comic grav-
ity, that the valiant little lion should be most
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278 CBA YON MI8 CELLAN T.
honorably entertained ; I hope, therefore, that he
BtUl flourishes at Abbotsford.
Before dismissing the theme of the relics £rom
the Abbey, I will mention another, illustrative<of
Scott's varied humors. This was a human skulL
which had probably belonged of yore to one of
those jovial friars so honorably mentioned in the
old border ballad, —
*^ O the monks of Melrose made gade kale
On Fridays, when they fiisted;
They wanted neither beef nor ale,
As long as their neighbors* lasted."
This skull Scott had caused to be cleaned and
varnished, and placed it on a chest of drawers in
his chamber, immediately opposite his bed ; where
I have seen it, grinning most dismally. It was
an object of great awe and horror to the super-
stitious housemaids; and Scott used to amuse
himself with their apprehensions. Sometimes,
in changing his dress, he would leave his neck-
cloth coiled round it like a turban, and none of
the " lasses " dared to remove it It was a mat-
ter of great wonder and speculation among them
that the laird should have such an " awsome fancy
for an auld girning skull."
At breakfast that morning Scott gave an
amusing account of a little Highlander called
Campbell of the North, who had a lawsuit of
many years' standing with a nobleman in his
neighborhood about the boundaries of their es-
tates. It was the leading object of the little man's
life ; the running theme of all his conversations ;
he used to detfdl all the circumstances at fall
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ABB0T8F0ED. 279
length to everybody he met, and, to aid him in
his description of the premises, and make his
story ^ mair preceese," he had a great map made
of his estate, a huge roll several feet long, which
he used to carry about on his shoulder. Camp-
bell was a long-bodied but short and bandy-le^ed
little man, always dad in the Highland garb ;
and as he went about with this great roll on his
shoulder, and his little legs curving like a pair of
parentheses below his kilt, he was an odd figure
to behold. He was like little David shouldering
the spear of Goliath, which was " like unto a
weaver's beam."
Whenever sheep-shearing was over, Campbell
used to set out for Edinburgh to attend to his
lawsuit. At the inns he paid double for all his
meals and his nights' lodging ; telling the land-
lords to keep it in mind until his return, so that
he might come back that way at free cost; for
he knew, he said, that he would spend all his
money among the lawyers at Edinburgh, so he
thought it best to secure a retreat home again.
On one of his visits he called upon his lawyer,
but was told he was not at home, but his lady
was. ^^It is just the same thing," said little
Campbell. On being shown into the parlor, he
unrolled his map, stated his case at full length,
and, having gone through with his story, gave
her the customary fee. She would have declined
it, but he insisted on her taking it. " I ha' had
just as much pleasure," said he, " in telling the
whole tale to you as I should have had in telling
it to your husband, and I believe full as much
profit.
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280 CRAYON MTkCELLANY,
The last time he saw Soott, Le told him he be*
lieved he and the laird were near a settlement^ as
thej agreed to within a few miles of the boun-
dary. If I recollect right, Soott added that he
advised the little man to consign his cause and
his map to the care of " Slow Willie Mowbray,**
of tedious memory : an Edinburgh worthy, much
employed by the country people, for he tired out
everybody in office by repeated visits and drawl-
ing, endless prolixity, and gained every suit bj
dint of boring.
These little stories and anecdotes, which
abounded in Scott's conversation, rose naturally
out of the subject, and were perfectly unforced ;
though in thus relating them in a detached way,
without the observations or circumstances which
led to them, and which have passed from my rec-
ollection, they want their setting to give them
proper relief. They will serve, however, to show
the natural play of his mind, in its familiar moods,
and its fecundity in graphic and characteristic
detail.
His daughter Sophia and his son Charles were
those of his family who seemed most to feel and
understand his humors, and to take delight in his
conversation. Mrs. Scott did not always pay the
same attention, and would now and then make a
casual remark which would operate a little like
a damper. Thus, one morning at breakfast, wlien
Dominie Thompson the tutor was present, Scott
was going on with great glee to relate an anecdote
of the laird of Macnab, " who, poor feUow ! " pre-
mised he, « is dead and gone " — " Why, Mr.
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Scott,'* excduimed the good lady, " Macnab 's not
dead, is he ? " — " Faith, my dear," replied Scott^
with humorous gravity, " if he 's not dead they V©
done him great injustice, — for they Ve buried
him."
The joke passed harmless and unnoticed by
Mrs. Scott, but hit the poor Dominie just as he
had raised a cup of tea to his lips, causing a burst
of laughter which sent half of the contents about
the table.
After break&st, Scott was occupied for some
time correcting proof-sheets, which he had re*
ceived by the mail. The novel of " Rob Boy," as
I have already observed, was at that time in the
press, and I supposed them to be the proof-sheets
of that work. The authorship of the Waverly
novels was still a matter of conjecture and un-
certainty ; though few doubted their being princi-
pally written by Scott. One proof to me of his
being the author, was that he never adverted to
them. A man so fond of anything Scottish, and
anything relating to national history or local le-
gend, could not have been mute respecting such
productions, had they been written by another.
He was fond of quoting the works of his contem-
poraries ; he was continually reciting scraps of
border songs, or relating anecdotes of border story.
With respect to his own poems and their merits,
however, he was mute, and while with him I ob-
served a scrupulous silence on the subject.
I may here mention a singular fact, of which
i was not aware at the time, that Scott was very
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2S2 CRAYON MI8CELLAN7.
reserved with his children respecting his own
writings, and was even disinclined to their read«
ing his romantic poems. I learnt this, some time
after, from a passage in one of his letters to me,
adverting to a set of the American miniature edi-
tion of his poems, which, on my return to Eng-
land, I forwarded to one of the young ladies.
" In my hurry," writes he, " I have not thanked
you, in Sophia's name, for the kind attention
which furnished her with the American volumes.
I am not quite sure I can add my own, siQoe
you have made her acquainted with much more
of papa's folly than she would otherwise have
learned ; for I have taken special care they should
never see any of these things during their earlier
years."
To return to the thread of my narrative.
When Scott had got through his brief literary
occupation, we set out on a ramble. The young
ladies started to accompany us, but had not gone
far when they met a poor old laborer and his
distressed femily, and turned back to take them to
the house and relieve them.
On passing the bounds of Abbotsford, we
came upon a bleak-looking farm, with a forlorn
crazy old manse, or farm-house, standing in naked
desolation. This, however, Scott told me was
an ancient hereditary property called Lauckend,
about as valuable as the patrimonial estate of Don
Quixote, and which, in like manner, conferred an
hereditary dignity upon its proprietor, who was
a laird, and, though poor as a rat, prided him-
self upon his ancient blood, and the standing
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ABBOTBFOBD. 288
of his house. He was acoordin^y called Lauck*
end, acoording to the Scottish custom of naming
a man after his family estate, but he was more
generally known through the country round by
the name of Lauckie Long Legs, from the length
of his limbs. While Scott was giving this ac-
count of him, we saw him at a distance striding
along one of his fields, with his plaid fluttering
about him, and he seemed well to deserve his
appellation, for he looked all legs and tartan.
Lauckie knew nothing of the world beyond his
neighborhood. Scott told me, that, on returning
to Abbotsford from his visit to France, immedi-
ately after the war, he was called on by his
neighbors generally, to inquire after foreign parts.
Among the number, came Lauckie Long Legs
and an old brother as ignorant as himself. They
had many inquiries to make about the French,
whom they seemed to consider some remote and
Bemi-barbarous horde. "And what like are thae
barbarians in their own country ? " said Lauckie,
" can they write ? — can they cipher ? ** He was
quite astonished to learn that they were nearly as
much advanced in civilization as the gude folks
of Abbotsford.
•After living for a long time in single blessed-
ness, Lauckie all at once, and not long before my
visit to the neighborhood, took it into his head
to get married. The neighbors were all sur-
prised ; but the &mily connection, who were as
proud as they were poor, were grievously scan-
dalized, for they thought the young woman on
'Whom he had set his mind quite beneath him. It
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284 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
\ in yain, boweyer, that they remonstrated on
the misalliance he was about to make : he was
not to be swayed from his determination. Ar«
raying himself in his best, and saddling a gaunt
steed that might have rivalled Bosinante, and
placing a pillion behind his saddle, he departed to
wed and bring home the humble lassie who was
to be made mistress of the venerable hovel of
Lauckend, and who lived in a village on the op-
posite side of the Tweed.
A small event of the kind makes a great stir
in a little quiet country neighborhood. The word
soon circulated through the village of Melrose, and
the cottages in its vicinity, that Lauckie Long Legs
had gone over the Tweed to fetch home his bride.
All the good folks assembled at the bridge to
await his return. Lauckie, however, disappointed
them ; for he crossed the river at a distant ford,
and conveyed his bidde safe to his mansion, with-
out being perceived.
Let me step forward in the course of events
and relate the fate of poor Lauckie, as it was com-
municated to me a year or two afterwards in a let-
ter by Scott From the time of his marriage he
had no longer any peace, owing to the constant
intermeddlings of his relations, who would not
permit him to be happy in his own way, but en-
deavored to set him at variance with his wife.
Lauckie refused to credit any of their stories to
her disadvantage ; but the incessant warfare he
had to wage in defence of her good name, wore
out both flesh and spirit His last conflict was
with his own brothers, in front of his paternal
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ABBOTSFORD. 285
mansion. A fuiious scolding-match took place
between them ; Lauckie made a vehement profes-
sion of &ith in fa^^or of her immaculate honestj,
and then fell dead at the threshold of his own
door. His person, his character, his name, his
1»tory, and his fate, entitled him to he immortal-
ized in one of Scott's novels, and I looked to rec-
ognize him in some of the succeeding works from
ihis pen ; but I looked in vain.
Ailer passing bj the domains of honest
Lauckie, Scott pointed out, at a distance, the Eil-
don stone. There in ancient days stood the Eil-
don tree, beneath which Thomas the Rhymer,
acoording to popular tradition, dealt forth his
prophecies, some of which stiU exist in antiquated
ballads.
Here we turned up a little glen with a small
bum or brook whimpering and dashing along it,
making an occasional waterfall, and overhung in
some places with mountain-ash and weeping-
birch. We are now, said Scott, treading classic,
or rather fairy ground. This is the haunted glen
of Thomas the Rhymer, where he met i?^ith the
queen of fairy land ; and this the bogle bum, or
goblin brook, along which she rode on her dap-
ple-gray palfrey, with silver bells ringing at the
bridle.
" Here," said he, pausing, " is Huntley Bank,
on which Thomas the Rhymer lay musing and
Bleeping when he saw, or dreamt he saw, the
queen of Elfland : —
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286 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
** True Thomas lay on Hnntlie baak;
A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e;
And there he saw a ladye Ijright,
Come ridmg down by the Eildon tvee.
** Her skirt was o* the grass green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne ;
At ilka tett of her horse's mane
Hang fifty siller bells and nine.'*
Here Scott repeated several of the stanzas and
recounted the circumstance of Thomas the Ithym-*
er's interview with the fairy, and his being trans-
ported by her to fairy land —
*' And til seven years were gone and past,
True Thomas on earth was never seen.*'
It is a fine old story, said he, and might be wrought
up into a capital tale.
Scott continued on, leading the way as usual,
and limping up the wizard glen, talking as he
went, but as his back was toward me, I could
only hear the deep growling tones of his voice,
like the low breathing of an organ, without dis-
tinguishing the words, until pausing, and turning
his face towards me, I found he was reciting some
scrap df border minstrelsy about Thomas the
Ehymer. This was continually the case in my
ramblings with him about this storied neighbor-
hood. His mind was fraught with the tradition-
ary fictions connected with every object around
him, and he would breathe it forth as he went,
apparently as much for his own gratification at
for that of his companion.
^ Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along,
But had itB legend or its song."
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ABBOTSFORD. 287
His Toice was deep and sonorous, he spoke with
a Scottish accent^ and with somewhat of the
Northumbrian " burr," which, to my mind, gave
a doric strength and simplicity to his elocution.
His recitation of poetry was, at times, magnifi-
cent.
I think it was in the course of this ramble that
my friend Hamlet, the blade greyhound, got into
a sad scrape. The dogs were beating about the
glens and fields as usual, and had been for some
time out of sight, when we heard a barking at
some distance to the left. Shortly after we saw
some sheep scampering on the hiUs, with the dogs
after them. Scott applied to his lips the ivory
whistle, always hanging at his button-hole, and
soon called in the culprits, excepting Hamlet.
£[astening up a bank which commanded a view*
along a fold or hollow of the hills, we beheld the
sable prince of Denmark standing by the bleeding
body of a sheep. The car6ass was still warm,
the throat bore marks of the fatal grip, and Ham-
let's muzzle was stained with blood. Never was
culprit more completely caught in flagrante ddictu.
I supposed the doom of poor Hamlet to be sealed ;
for no higher offence can be c6mmitted by a dog
in a country abounding with sheep-walks. Scott,
however, had a greater value for his dogs than
for his sheep. They were his companions and
friends. Hamlet, too, though an irregular, imper-
tinent kind of youngster, was evidently a favor-
ite. He would not for some time believe it could
be he who had killed the sheep. It must have
been some cur of the neighborhood, that had
19
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38$ CRAYON MISCELLANY.
made off on our approach, and left poor Hamlet
in the lurch, Proo&, however, were too strongs
and Hamlet was generallj condemned. ^' Well,
well," said Scott, " it 's partly my own fitult. I
have given up coursing for some .time past, and
the poor dog has had no chance after game to
take the fire edge off of him. If he was put
after a hare occasionally, he never would meddle
with sheep.''
I understood, afterwards, that Scott actually
got a pony, and went out now and then coursing
with Hamlet, who, in consequence, showed no
fiirther inclination for mutton.
A further stroll among the hills brought us to
what Scott pronounced the remains of a Roman
bamp, and as we sat upon a hillpck which had
once formed a part of the ramparts, he pointed
out the traces of the lines and bulwarks, and the •
praetorium, and showed a knowledge of castrama-
tation that would not have disgraced the antiqua-
rian Oldbuck himself. Indeed, various circum-
stances that I observed about Scott during my
visit, concurred to persuade me that many of the
antiquarian humors of Monkbams were taken
from his own richly compounded character, and
that some of the scenes and personages of that
admirable novel were furnished by his immediate
neighborhood.
He gave me several anecdotes of a noted pau-
per named Andrew Gemmells, or Gammel, as it
was pronounced, who had once flourished on the
banks of Gralla Water, immediately opposite Ab-
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ABB0T8F0RD, 289
botsfi>rd, and whom he had seen and talked and
joked with when a boy ; and I instantly reoog-
nized the likeness of that mirror of philosophic
vagabonds and Nestor of beggars, Edie Ochiltree.
I was on the point of pronouncing the name and
recognizing the portrait, when I recollected the
incognito observed by Scott with respect to his
novels, and checked myself; but it was one among
many things that tended to convince me of his
authorship.
His picture of Andrew Gemmells exactly ac-
corded with that of Edie as to his height, car-
riage, and soldier-like air, as well as his arch and
sarcastic humor. His home, if home he had, was
at Gallashiels ; but he went " daundering " about
the country, along the green shaws and beside the ^
bums, and was a kind of walking chronicle
throughout the valleys of the Tweed, the Ettrick,
and the Yarrow ; carrying the gossip from house
to house, commenting on the inhabitants and
their concerns, and never hesitating to give them
a dry rub as to any of their faults or follies.
A shrewd beggar like Andrew Gemmells,
Scott added, who could sing the old Scotch airs,
tell stories and traditions, and gossip away the
long winter evenings, was by no means an un-
welcome visitor at a lonely manse or cottage.
The children would run to welcome him, and
place his stool in a warm comer of the ingle
nook, and the old folks would receive him as a
privUeged guest
As to Andrew, he looked upon them all as a
parson does upon his parishioners, and considered
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290 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
llie alms he received as much his due as the other
does his tithes. I rather think, added Soott, An-
drew considered himself more of a gentleman
than those who toiled for a living, and that he
secretly looked down upon the painstaking peas-
ants that fed and sheltered him.
He had derived his aristocratical notions in
some degree from being admitted occasionally to
a precarious sociability with some of the small
country gentry, who were sometimes in want of
company to help while away the time. With
these Andrew would now and then play at cards
and dice, and he never lacked <' siller in pouch "
to stake on a game, which he did with the perfect
air of a man to whom money was a matter of
little moment ; and no one could lose his money
with more gentlemanlike coolness.
Among those who occasionally admitted him
to this familiarity, was old John Scott of Galla, a
man of family, who inhabited his paternal man-
sion of Torwoodlee. Some distinction of rank,
however, was still kept up. The laird sat on the
inside of the window and the beggar on the out-
side, and they played cards on the silL
Andrew now and then told the laird a piece of
his mind very freely ; especially on one occasion,
when he had sold some of his paternal lands to
build himself a larger house with the proceeds.
The speech of honest Andrew smacks of the
shrewdness of Edie Ochiltree.
" It 's a' varra weel — it 's a' varra weel, Tor-
woodlee," said he ; " but who would ha' thought
that your father's son would ha' sold two gude
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ABBOTSFORD. 291
estates to build a Shaw's (cuckoo's) nest on the
side of ahiU?"
That day there was an arrival at Abbotsford
of two EngHsh tourists : one a gentleman of for-
tune and landed estate, the other a young clergy-
man whom he appeared to have under his patron-
age, and to have brought with him as a travelling
companion.
The patron was one of those well-bred, com-
monplace gentlemen with which England is over-
run. He had great deference for Scott, and
endeavored to acquit himself learnedly in his
company, aiming continually at abstract disquisi-
tions, for which Scott had little relish. The
conversation of the latter, as usual, was studded
with anecdotes and stories, some of them of great
pith and humor : the well-bred gentleman was
either too dull to feel their point, or too decorous
to indulge in hearty merriment ; the honest par-
son, on the contrary, who was not too renned to
be happy, laughed loud and long at every joke,
and enjoyed them with the zest of a man who
has more merriment in his heart than coin in his
pocket
After they were gone, some comments were
made upon their different deportments. Scott
spoke very respectftdly of the good breeding and
measured manners of the man^jof wealth, but
with a kindlier feeling of the honest parson, and
the homely but hearty enjoyment with which he
relished every pleasantry. " I doubt," said he,
< whether the parson's lot in life is not the best ;
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29S CRAYON MISCELLANY.
if he cannot command as many of the good
things of this world by his own parse as hia pat-
ron can, he beats him all hollow in his enjoyment
of them when set before him by others. Upon
the whole," added he, " I rather think I prefer
the honest parson's good homor to his patron's
good breeding; I have a great regard for a
hearty langher."
He went on to speak of the great influx of
English travellers, which of late years had inun-
dated Scotland; and doubted whether they had
not injured the old-&shioned Scottish character.
« Formerly, they came here occasionally as sports-
men," said he, '^ to shoot moor-game, without any
idea of looking at scenery ; and they moved about
the country in hardy simple style, coping with
the country people in their own way ; but now
they come rolling about in their equipages, to see
ruins, and spend money ; and their lavish extrav-
agance has played the vengeance with the com-
mon people. It has made them rapacious in
their dealings with strangers, greedy after money,
and extortionate in their demands for the most
trivial services. Formerly," continued he, " the
poorer classes of our people were comparatively
disinterested; they offered their services gratui-
tously, in promoting the amusement, or aiding the
curiosity of strangers, and were gratified by the
smallest compensation; but now they mi^e a
trade of showing rocks and ruins, and are as
greedy as Italian cicerones. They look upon the
English as so many walking money-bags ; the
more they are shaken and poked^ the more tfaej
will leave behind them."
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ABBOTSFORD. 293
I told him that he had a great deal to answer
for on that head, since it was the romantic asso-
ciations he had thrown by his writings over so
many out-of-the-way places in Scotland, that had
brought in the influx of curious travellers.
Scott laughed, and said he believed I might be
in some measure in the right, as he recollected a
circumstance in point Being one time at Glen-
ross, an old woman who kept a small inn, which
had but little custom, was uncommonly officious
in her attendance upon him, and absolutely in-
commoded him with her civilities. The secret
at length came out. As he was about to depart,
she addressed him with many curtsies, and said
she understood he was the gentleman that had
written a bonnie book about Loch Katrine. She
begged him to write a little about their lake also,
for she understood his book had done the inn at
lx>ch Katrine a muckle deal of good.
On the following day I made an excursion
with Scott and the young ladies to Dryburgh
Abbey. We went in an open carriage, drawn by
two sleek old black horses, for which Scotfc
seemed to have an affection, as he had for every
dumb animal that belonged to him. Our road
lay through a variety of scenes, rich in poetical
and historical associatitjiiSj about Tni>Rt ot" whicli^
Scott had something to relate. la oue pwrtj
the drive he pointed to an old bonk^r 1c€
fortress, on the summit of a naked UiHt '
miles off, which he calleti Smallholm Towe
rocky knoll on which it stood, (L^
Knowe crags." It was a place, he ^
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294 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
liarlj dear to him, from the recollections of child-
hood. His grand&ther had lived there in the
old Smallholm Grange, or farm-house; and he
had been sent there, when but two years old, on
account of his lameness, that he might have the
benefit of the pure air of the hills, and be under
the care of his grandmother and aunts.
In the introduction of one of the cantos of
" Marmion," he has depicted his grandfather, and
the fireside of the farm-house ; and has given an
amusing picture of himself in his boyish yectrs.
" Still with vain fondness could I trace
Anew each kind familiar fiice,
That brightened at our evening fire;
From the thatched mansion^s gray-haired sire,
Wise without learning, plain and good,
And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood;
Whose eye in age, quick, clear and keen,
Showed what in youth its glance had been;
Whose doom discording neighbors sought,
Content with equity unbought;
To him the venerable priest,
Our frequent and familiar guest,
Whose life and manners well could paint
Alike the student and the saint;
Alas ! whose speech too oft I broke
With gambol rude and timeless joke;
For I was wayward, bold, and wild,
A self-willed imp, a grandame*s child;
But half a plague, and half a jest.
Was still endured, beloved, carest,"
It was, he said, during his residence at Small*
holm crags, that he first imbibed his passion for
legendary tales, border traditions, and old national
Bongs and ballads. His grandmother and aunts
were well versed in that kind of lore so current
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ABBOTarORD. 295
in Scottish country Kfe. They used to recount
them m long, gloomy winter days, and about the
ingle nook at night, in conclave with their gossip
visitors ; and little Walter would sit and listen
with greedy ear ; thus taking into his infant mind
the seeds of many a splendid fiction.
There was an old shepherd, he said, in the ser-
vice of the family, who used to sit under the
sunny wall, and tell marvellous stories, and recite
old-time ballads, as he knitted stockings. Scott
used to be wheeled out in his chair, in fine
weather, and would sit beside the old man, and
listen to him for hours.
The situation of Sandy Knowe was favorable
both for story-teller and listener. It commanded
a wide view over all the border country, with its
feudal towers, its haunted glens, and wizard
streams. As the old shepherd told his tales, he
could point out the very scene of action. Thus,
before Scott could walk, he was made familiar
with the scenes of his future stories ; they were
all seen as through a magic medium, and took
that tinge of romance which they ever after re-
tained in his imagination^ From the height of
Sandy Knowe he may be said to have had the
first look-out upon the promised land of his future
glory.
On referring to Scotfs works, I find many of
the circumstances related in this conversation
about the old tower, and the boyish scenes con-
nected with it, recorded in the introduction to
■* Jklarmion," already cited. This was frequently
the case with Scott ; incidents and feelings that
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296 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
had appeared in his writings, were apt to bo
mingled up in his conversation, for they had been
taken from what he had witnessed and felt in
real life, and were connected with those scenes
among which he lived, and moved, and had his
being. I make no scruple at quoting the passage
relative to the tower, though it repeats much of
the foregone imagery, and with vastly superior
effect
" Thus, while I ape the measure wild
Of tales that charmed me yet a child,
Rude though thej be, still with the chime
Return the thoughts of early time;
And feelings roused in lifers first day,
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower.
Which charmed my fancy's wakening lionr,
Though no broad river swept along
To claim perchance heroic song;
Though sighed no groves in tnmimergale
To prompt of love a softer tale ;
Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed
Claimed homage from a shepherd's reed;
Tet was poetic impulse given,
By the green hill and clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene, and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled;
But ever and anon between
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew.
And honeysuckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruined walL
I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all his round surveyed;
And still I thought that shattered tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvelled as the aged hind
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ABBOTSFORD. 297
With some strange tale bewitched my mind
Of forayers, who, with headlong force,
Down irom that strength had sparred their ]ioi8e»
Their southern rapine to renew,
Far in the distant Cheviot's blue.
And, home returning, filled the hall
With revel, wassail-rout, and brawl —
Methought that still with tramp and dang
The gateway's broken arches rang;
Methought grim features, seamed with scars
Glared through the window's rusty bars.
And ever by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth.
Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms,
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;
Of patriot battles won of old
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields offend and fight.
When pouring from the Highland height,
The Scottish clans, in headlong sway,
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While stretched at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat o'er.
Pebbles and shells, in order Itud,
The mimic ranks of war displayed;
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore.
And still the scattered Southron fled before."
Scott eyed the distant height of Sandy Knowe
«nth an earnest gaze as we rode along, and said
he had often thought of buying the place, repair-
ing the old tower, and making it his residence.
He has in some measure, however, paid off his
early debt of gratitude, in clothing it with poetic
and romantic associations, by his tale of "The
Eve of St John." It is to be hoped that those
who actually possess so interesting a monument
of Scott's early days, will preserve it from further
dilapidation.
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298 CRAYON MIHCELLANY.
Not far from Sandy Knowe, Soott pointed oat
another old border hold, standing on the summit
of a hill, which had been a kind of enchanted
castle to him in his boyhood. It was the tower
of Bemerside, the baronial residence of the Haigs,
or De Hagas, one of the oldest families of the
border. "There had seemed to him/' he said,
** almost a wizard spell hanging over it, in conse-
quence of a prophecy of Thomas the Rhymer,
in which, in his young days, he most potently be-
lieved:"
*' Betide, betide, whatever betide,
Haig shall be Haig of Bemerside."
Scott added some particulars which showed
that, in the present instance, the venerable Thomas
had not proved a false prophet, tor it was a noted
fact, that, amid all the changes and chances of the
border — through all the feuds, and forays, and
sackings, and burnings, which had reduced most
of the castles to ruins, and the proud families that
once possessed them to poverty, the tower of
Bemerside stiU remained unscathed, and was still
the strong-hold of the ancient family of Haig.
Prophecies, however, often insure their own
fulfilment. It is very probable that the predic-
tion of Thomas the Rhymer has linked the Haigs
to their tower, as their rock of safety, and has
induced them to ding to it, almost superstitiously,
through hardships and inconveniences that would
otherwise have caused its abandonment
I afterwards saw, at Dryburgh Abbey, the
burying-place of this predestinated and tenacious
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ABJBOTSFORD. 299
family, the inscription of which showed the value
they set upon their antiquity : —
"Locus Sepaltane,
Antiquessimse Familia
De Haga
De Bemerside/*
In reverting to the days of his childhood, Scott
observed that the lameness which had disabled
him in infency gradually decreased ; he soon ac-
quired strength in his limbs, and though he al-
ways limped, he became, even in boyhood, a great
walker. He used frequently to stroll from home
and wander about the country for days together,
picking up all kinds of local gossip, and observ-
ing popular scenes and characters. His father
used to be vexed with him for this wandering
propensity, and, shaking his head, would say he
fancied the boy would make nothing but a ped-
ler. As he grew older, he became a keen sports-
man, and passed much of his time hunting and
shooting. His field-sports led him into the most
wild and unfrequented parts of the country, and
in this way he picked up much of that local
knowledge which he has since evinced in his writ-
ings.
His first visit to Loch Katrine, he said, was in
his boyish days, on a shooting excursion. The
L^land, which he has made the romantic residence
of the Lady of the Lake, was then garrisoned
by an old man and his wife. Their house was
vacant: they had put the key under the door,
and were absent fishing. It was at that time a
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800 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
peaceful residence, but became afterwards a resort
of smugglers, until they were ferreted out
In after-years, when Scott began to turn this
local knowledge to literary account, he revisited
many of those scenes of his early ramblings, and
endeavored to secure the ftigitive remains of the
traditions and songs that had charmed his boy-
hood. When collecting materials for his " Border
Minstrelsy," he used, he said, to go from cottage to
cottage and make the old wives repeat all they
knew, if but two lines ; and by putting these
scraps together, he retrieved many a fine charac-
teristic old ballad or tradition &om oblivion.
I regret to say that I can recollect scarce any-
thing of our visit to Dryburgh Abbey. It is on
the estate of the Earl of Buchan. lie religious
edifice is a mere ruin, rich in Gothic antiquities,
but especially interesting to Scott, from containing
the family vault, and the tombs and monuments
of his ancestors. He appeared to feel much
chagrin at their being in the possession, and sub-
ject to the intermeddlings of the Earl, who was
represented as a nobleman of an eccentric char-
acter. The latter, however, set great value on
these sepulchral relics, and had expressed a lively
anticipation of one day or other having the honor
of burying Scott, and adding his monument to
the collection, which he intended should be worthy
of the " mighty minstrel of the north," — a pro-
spective compliment which was by no means rel-
ished by the object of it
Oae of my pleasant rambles with Scott, about
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ADB0T8F0RL, 801
the neighborhood of Abbotsford, was taken in
company with Mr. William Laidlaw, the steward
of his estate. This was a gentleman for whom
Scott entertained a particular value. He had
been bom to a competency, had been well edu-
cated, his mind was richly stored with varied in-
formation, and he was a man of sterling moral
worth. Having been reduced by misfortune,
Scott had got him to take charge of his estate.
He lived at a small farm on the hill-side above
Abbotsford, and was treated by Scott as a cher-
ished and confidential friend, rather than a de-
pendant.
As the day was showery, Scott was attended
by one of his retaiaers, named Tommie Purdie,
who carried his' plaid, and who deserves especial
mention. Sophia Scott used to call him her
father's grand vizier, and she gave a playful ac-
count one evening, as she was hanging on her
father's arm, of the consultations which he and
Tommie used to have about matters relative to
farming. Purdie was tenacious of his opinions,
and he and Scott would have long disputes in
front of the house, as to something that was to
' be done on the estate, until the latter, fairly tired
out, would abandon the ground and the argument,
exclaiming, " Well, well, Tom, have it your own
way."
After a time, however, Purdie would present
himself at the door of the parlor, and observe,
* I ha' been thinking over Ihe matter, and, upon
the whole, I think I '11 take your honor's advice."
Scott laughed heartily when this anecdote was
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802 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
told of him. "• It was with him and Tom," he
saidy '< as it was with an old laird and a pet ser*
vant, whom he had indulged until he was positive
beyond all endurance. ^ This won't do ! ' cried
the old laird, in a passion, ' we can't live together
any longer — we must part.' * An' where the
deil does your honor mean to go ? ' replied the
other."
I would, moreover, observe of Tom Purdie,
that he was a firm believer in ghosts, and war-
locks, and all kinds of old wives' fable. He was
a religious man, too, mingling a little degree of
Scottish pride in his devotion; for though his
salary was but twenty pounds a year, he had
managed to afford seven poimds for a family
Bible. It is true, he had one hundred pounds
dear of the world, and was looked up to by his
comrades as a man of property.
In the course of our morning's walk we stop-
ped at a small house belonging to one of the la-
borers on the estate. The object of Scott's visit
was to inspect a relic which had been digged up
in the Roman camp, and which, if I recollect
right, he pronounced to have been a tongs. It
was produced by the cottager's wife, a ruddy,
healthy-looking dame, whom Scott addressed by
the name of Ailie. As he stood regarding the
relic, turning it round and round, and making
comments upon it, half grave, half comic, with the
cottage group around him, all joining occasionally
in the colloquy, the inimitable character of Monk-
bams was again brought to mind, and I seemed
to see before me that prince of antiquarians and
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ABB0T8F0RD. 808
humorists holding forth to his unlearned and un-
believing neighbors.
Whenever Scott touched, in this way, upon
local antiquities, and in all his familiar conversa-
tions about local traditions and superstitions, there
was always a sly and quiet humor running at the
bottom of his discourse, and playing about his
countenance, as if he sported with the subject. It
seemed to me as if he distrusted his own enthu-
siasm, and was disposed to droll upon his own
humors and peculiarities, yet, at the same time, a
poetic gleam in his eye would show that he really
took a strong relish and interest in them. ^' It
was a pity,'* he said, " that antiquarians were
generally so dry, for the subjects they handled
were rich in historical and poetic recollections,
in picturesque details, in quaint and heroic char-
acteristics, and in all kinds of curious and obso-
lete ceremonials. They are always groping
among the rarest materials for poetry, but they
have no idea of turning them to poetic use. Now
every fragment from old times has, in some de-
gree, its story with it, or gives an inkling of some-
thing characteristic of the circumstances and man-
ners of its day, and so sets the imagination at
work."
For my own part, I never met with antiquarian
so delightful, either in his writings or his conver-
sation; and the quiet subacid humor that was
prone to mingle in his disquisitions, gave them, to
me, a peculiar and exquisite flavor. But he
seemed, in fact, to undervalue everything that
concerned himself. The play of his genius was
20
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30A CRAYON MISCELLANY.
to easy that he was nnoonsdoiis of its mighty
power, and made light of those sports of intellect'
that shamed the efforts and labors of other minds.
Our ramble this morning tooJl us again up the
Rhymer^s Glen, and bj Huntlej Bank, and Hunt-
ley Wood, and the silver waterfall overhung with
weeping-birches and mountain-ashes, those delicate
and beautiful trees which grace the green shaws
and burnsides of Scotland. The heather, too, that
closely-woven robe of Scottish landscape which
covers the nakedness of its hills and mountains,
tinted the neighborhood with soft and rich colors.
As we ascended the glen, the prospects opened
upon us ; Melrose, with its towers and pinnacles,
lay below ; beyond was the Eildon hills, the Cow-
den Bjiowes, the Tweed, the Galla Water, and all
the storied vicinity ; the whole landscape varied
by gleams of sunshine and driving showers.
Scott, as usual, took the lead, limping albng
with great activity, and in joyous mood, giving
scraps of border rhymes and border stories ; two
or three times in the course of our walk there
were drizzling showers, which I supposed would
put an end to our ramble, but my companions
trudged on as unconcernedly as if it had been
fine weather.
At length, I asked whether we had not better
seek some shelter. " True," said Scott, " I did
not recollect that you were not accustomed to our
Scottish mists. This is a ladirymose dimate,
evermore showering. We, however, are children
of the mist, and must not mind a little whimper-
ing of the clouds any more than a man must
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ABB0T8F0RD. 805
miiid the weeping of an hysterical wife. As you
are not accustomed to be wet through, as a mat-
ter of course, in a morning's walk, we wiU bide
a bit under the lee of this bank until the shower
is over." Taking his seat under shelter of a
thicket, he called to his man George for his tar-
tan ; then turning to me, " Come," said he, " come
under my plaidy, as the old song goes ; " so, mak-
ing me nestle down beside him, he wrapped a part
of the plaid round me, and took me, as he said,
under his wing.
While we were thus nestled together, he pointed
to a hole in the opposite bank of the glen. That,
he said, was the hole of an old gray badger, who
was, doubtless, snugly housed in this bad weather.
Sometimes he saw him at the entrance of his hole,
like a hermit at the door of his cell, telling his
beads, or reading a homily. He had a great re-
spect for the venerable anchorite, and would not
suffer him to be disturbed. He was a kind of
successor to Thomas the Rhymer, and perhaps
might be Thomas himself returned from fairy
land, but still under fairy spell.
Some accident turned the conversation upon
Hogg, the poet, in which Laidlaw, who was
seated beside us, took a part. Hogg had once
been a shepherd in the service of his father, and
Laidlaw gave many interesting anecdotes of him,
of which I now retain no recollection. They
used to tend the sheep together when Laidlaw
was a boy, and Hogg would recite the first strug-
gling conceptions of his muse. At night, when
Laidlaw was quartered comfortably in bed, in the
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806 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
&rm-house, poor Hogg would take to the shep-
herd's hut, in the field on the hill-side, and there
lie awake for hours together, and look at the
stars and make poetry, which he would repeat
the next day to his companion.
Scott spoke in warm terms of Hogg, and re-
peated passages from his beautiful poem of Kel-
meny, to which he gave great and well-merited
praise. He gave, also, some amusing anecdotes
of Hogg and his publisher, Blackwood, who was
at that time just rising into the bibliographical
importance which he has since enjoyed.
Hogg, in one of his poems, I believe the " Pil-
grims of the Sun," had dabbled a little in meta-
physics, and, like his heroes, had got into the
clouds. Blackwood, who began to affect criticism,
argued stoutly with him as to the necessity of
omitting or elucidating some obscure passage.
Hogg was immovable.
"But, man," said Blackwood, "I dinna ken
what ye mean in this passage." — " Hout tout,
man," replied Hogg, impatiently, "I dinna ken
always what I mean mysel'." There is many a
metaphysical poet in the same predicament with
honest Hogg.
Scott promised to invite the Shepherd to Ab-
botsford during my visit, and I anticipated much
gratification in meeting with him, from the ac-
count I had received of his character and man-
ners, and the great pleasure I had derived from
his works. Circumstances, however, prevented
Scott from performing his promise ; and to my
great regret I left Scotland without seeing one
of its most original and national characters.
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ABBOTSFORD, 807
When the weather held up,. we oontinned our
WBiXk until we came to a beautiful sheet of water,
in the bosom of the mountain, called, if I recol-
lect right, the Lake of Cauldshiel. Scott prided
himself much upon this little Mediterranean sea
in his dominions, and hoped I was not too much
spoiled by our great lakes in America to relish it.
He proposed to take me out to the centre of it,
to a fine point of view : for which purpose we
embarked in a small boat, which had been put on
the lake by his neighbor, Lord SomerviUe. As
I was about to step on board, I observed in large
letters on one of the benches, " Search No. 2."
I paused iR)r a moment and repeated the inscrip-
tion aloud, trying to recollect something I had
heard or read to which it alluded. " Pshaw,"
cried Scott, " it is only some of Lord Somerville's
nonsense ; — get in ! " In an instant scenes in the
"Antiquary" connected with "Search No. 1,"
flashed upon my mind. " Ah ! I remember now,"
said I, and with a laugh took my seat, but ad-
verted no more to the circumstance.
We had a pleasant row about the lake, which
commanded some pretty scenery. The most in-
teresting circumstance connected with it, however,
according to Scott, was, that it was haunted by a
bogle in the shape of a water-bull, which lived
in the deep parts, and now and then came forth
upon dry land and made a tremendous roaring,
that shook the very hills. This story had been
current in the vicinity from time immemorial ; — -
there was a man living who declared he had seen
the bull, — and he was believed by many of his
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508 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
simple neighbors. ^^ I don't choose to contradict
the tale," said Scott, " for I am willing to have
mj lake stocked with any fish, flesh, or fowl that
my neighbors think proper to put into it; and
these old wives' fables are a kind of property in
Scotland that belong to the estates and go with
the soiL Our streams and lochs are like the
rivers and pools in Germany, that have all their
Wasser-Nixen, or water-witches, and I have a
fancy for these kind of amphibious bogles and
hobgoblins."
Scott went on, after we had landed, to make
many remarks, mingled with picturesque anec-
dotes concerning the fabulous beings with which
the Scotch were apt to people the wild streams
and lochs that occur in the solemn and lonely
scenes of their mountains ; and to compare them
with similar superstitions among the northern na-
tions of Europe ; but Scotland, he said, was
above all other countries for this wild and vivid
progeny of the fancy, from the nature of the
scenery, the misty magnificence and vagueness of
the climate, the wild and gloomy events of its
history ; the clannish divisions of its people ;
their local feelings, notions, and prejudices ; the
individuality of their dialect, in which' all kinds
of odd and peculiar notions were incorporated ;
by the secluded life of their mountaineers ; the
lonely habits of their pastoral people, much of
whose time was passed on the solitary hill-sides ;
Iheir traditional songs, which clothed every rock
and stream with old-world stories, handed down
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ABBOTSFORJ)^ 809
from age to age, and generation to generation.
The Scottish mind, he said, was made up of
poetry and strong common sense ; and the very
strength of the latter gave perpetuity and luxu-
riance to the former. It was a strong tenacious
soil, into which, when once a seed of poetry fell,
it struck deep root and brought forth abundantly.
" You will never weed these popular stories and
songs and superstitions out of Scotland," said he.
^ It is not so much that the people believe in
them, as that they delight in them. They belong
to the native hills and streams of which they are
fond, and to the history of their forefathers, of
which they are proud."
" It would do your heart good," continued he,
" to see a number of our poor country people
seated round the ingle nook, which is generally
capacious enough, and passing the long dark
dreary winter nights listening to some old wife,
or strolling gaberlunzie, dealing out auld-world
stories about bogles and warlocks, or about raids
and forays, and border skirmish^ ; or reciting
some ballad stuck full of those fighting names that
stir up a true Scotchman's blood like the sound
of a trumpet These traditional tales and ballads
h^se lived for ages in mere oral circulation,
bemg passed from father to son, or rather from
grandam to grandchild, and are a kind of heredi-
tary property of the poor peasantry, of which it
would be hard to deprive them, as they have not
circulating libraries to supply them with works
of fiction in their place."
I do not pretend to give the precise words, but,
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810 CRAYON MiaCELLANT,
afl nearly as I can fix)m scantj memorandumB and
vague recollections, the leading ideas of Scott
I am constantly sensible, however, how far I fall
short of his copiousness and richness.
He went on to speak of the elves and sprites,
so frequent in Scottish legend. " Our fairies,
however," said he, " though they dress in green,
and gambol by moonlight about the banks, and
shaws, and bumsides, are not such pleasant little
folks as the English fairies, but are apt to bear
more of the warlock in their natures, and to play
spiteful tricks. When I was a boy, I used to
look wistfully at the green hillocks that were
said to be haunted by fairies, and felt sometimes
as if I should like to lie down by them and sleep,
and be carried off to Fairy Land, only that I did
not like some of the cantrips which used now and
then to be played off upon visitors."
Here Scott recounted, in graphic style, and
with much humor, a little story which used to be
current in the neighborhood, of an honest burgess
of Selkirk, who, being at work upon the hill of
Peatlaw, fell asleep upon one of these "fairy
knowes," or hillocks. When he awoke, he rubbed
his eyes and gazed about him with astonishment,
for he was in the market-place of a great (^,
with a crowd of people bustling about him, not
one of whom he knew. At length he accosted a
by-stander, and asked him the name of the place.
" Hout, man," replied the other, " are ye in the .
heart o' Glasgow, and speer the name of it ? "
The poor man was astonished, and would not be-
lieve either ears or eyes ; he insisted that he had
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ABB0T8F0RD. 811
laid down to sleep but half an hour before on the
Peadaw, near Selkirk. He came wellnigh be-
ing taken up for a madman, when, fortunately, a ^
Selkirk man came bj, who knew him, and took
charge of him, and conducted bim back to his
native place. Here, however, he was likely to
fare no better, when he spoke of having been
whisked in his sleep fix)m the Peatlaw to Glas-
gow. The truth of the matter at length came
out : his coat, which he had taken off when at
work on the Peatlaw, was found lying near a
** fairy knowe" ; and his bonnet, which was miss-
ing, was discovered on the weathercock of Lan-
ark steeple. So it was as clear as day that he
had been carried through the air by the fairies
while he was sleeping, and his bonnet had been
blown off by the way.
I give this little story but meagrely from a
scanty memorandum; Scott has related it in
somewhat different style in a note to one of his
poems ; but in narration these anecdotes derived
their chief zest, from the quiet but delightful
humor, the honhommie with which he seasoned
them, and the sly glance of the eye from under
his bushy eyebrows, with which they were ac-
companied.
That day at dinner we had Mr. Laidlaw and
his wife, and a female friend who accompanied
them. The latter was a very intelligent, respect-
able person, about the middle age, and was
treated vdth particular attention and courtesy by
Scott Our dinner was a most agreeable one;
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812 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
for the guests were evidently cherished yisitors
to the house, and felt that thej were appreciated.
When they were gone, Scott spoke of them in
the most cordial manner. " I vnshed to show
you," said he, " some of our really excellent,
plain Scotch people ; not fine gentlemen and la-
dies, for such you can meet everywhere, and
they are everywhere the same. The character
of a nation is not to be learnt fi<om its fine
folks."
He then went on with a particular eulogium
on the lady who had accompanied the Laidlaws.
She was the daughter, he said, of a poor country
clergyman, who had died in debt, and left her an
orphan and destitute. Having had a good plain
education, she immediately set up a child's school,
and had soon a numerous fiock under her care,
by which she earned a decent maintenance.
That, however, was not her main object. Her
first care was to pay off her father's debts, that
no iU word or ill will might rest upon his mem-
ory. This, by dint of Scottish economy, backed
by filial reverence and pride, she accomplished,
though in the effort she subjected herself to
every privation. Not content with this, she in
certain instances refused to take pay for the tui-
tion of the children of some of her neighbors,
who had befriended her father in his need, and
had since fallen into poverty. " In a word," added
Scott, " she is a fine old Scotch girl ; and I de-
light in her, more than in many a fine lady I
have known, — and I have known many of the
finest."
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ABBOTSFORD. 818
It is time, however, to draw Uiis rambling nar-
rative to a close. Several days were passed by
me, in the way I have attempted to describe, in
almost constant, familiar, and joyous conversation
with Scott ; it was as if I were admitted to a
social communion with Shakspeare, for it was with
one of a kindred, if not equal genius. Every
night I retired with my mind filled with delight-
ful recollections of the day, and every morning
I rose with the certainty of new enjoyment
The days thus spent I shall ever look back to as
among the very happiest of my life, for I was
conscious at the time of being happy.
The only sad moment that I experienced at
Abbotsford was that of my departure ; but it was
cheered with the prospect of soon returning ; for
I had promised, after making a tour in the High-
lands, to come and pass a few more days on the
banks of the Tweed, when Scott intended to in-
vite Hogg the poet to meet me. 'I took a kind
farewell of the family, with each of whom I had
been highly pleased ; if I have refrained from
dwelling particularly on their several characters,
and giving anecdotes of them individually, it is
because I consider them shielded by the sanc-
tity of domestic life : Scott, on the contrary, be-
longs to history. As he accompanied me on foot,
however, to a small gate on the confines of his
premises, I could not refrain from expressing the
enjoyment I had experienced in his domestic cir-
de, and passing some warm eulogiums on the
young folks from whom I had just parted. I
shall never forget his reply. " They have kind
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314 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
hearts," said he, '^ and that is the main point as to
human happiness. They love one another, poor
things, which is everything in domestic life. The
best wish I can make you, my friend," added he,
laying his hand upon my shoulder, " is, that when
you return to your own country you may get
married, and have a family of young bairns about
you. If you are happy, there they are to share
your happiness — and if you are otherwise —
there they are to comfort you."
By this time we had reached the gate, when he
halted, and took my hanji. " I will not say fare-
well,** said he, " for it is always a painful word,
but I will say, come again. When you have
made your tour to the Highlands, come here and
give me a few more days — but come when you
please, you will always find Abbotsford open to
you, and a hearty welcome.'*
I have thus given, in a rude style, my msdn
recollections of what occurred during my sojourn
at Abbotsford, and I feel mortified that I can give
but such meagre, scattered, and colorless details
of what was so copious, rich, and varied. Dur-
ing several days that I passed there, Scott was in
admirable vein. From early mom until dinner
time he was rambling about, showing me the
neighborhood, and during dinner, and imtil late at
night, engaged in social conversation. No time
was reserved for himself; he seemed as if his
only occupation was to entertain me ; and yet I
was almost an entire stranger to him, one of whom
he knew nothing but an idle book I had written,
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ABBOTSFORD, 815
and which, some years before, had amused him.
But such was Scott — he appeared to have noth-
ing to do but lavish his time, attention, and con-
versation on those around. It was difficult to
imagine what time he found to write those vol-
umes that were incessantly issuing from the press ;
all of which, too, were of a nature to require
reading and research. I could not find that his
life was ever otherwise than a life of leisure and
hap-hazard recreation, such as it was during my
visit He scarce ever balked a party of pleasure, '
or a sporting excursion, and rarely pleaded his
own concerns as an excuse for rejecting those of
others. During my visit I heard of other vis-
itors who had preceded me, and who must have
kept him occupied for many days, and I have
had an opportunity of knowing the course of his
daily life for some time subsequently. Not long
after my departure from Abbotsford, my friend
Wilkie arrived there, to paint a picture of the
Scott family. He found the house full of guests.
Scott's whole time was taken up in riding and
driving about the country, or in social conversa-
tion at home. " All this time," said Wilkie to
me, ^^ I did not presume to ask Mr. Scott to sit
for his portrait, for I saw he had not a moment
to spare ; I waited for the guests to go away, but
as fast as one went another arrived, and so it
continued for several dajrs, and with each set he
was completely occupied At length all went off,
and we were quiet. I thought, however, Mr.
Scott will now shut himself up among his books
and papers, for he has to make up for lost time ;
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316 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
it won't do for me to ask him now to sit for hii
picture. Laidlaw, who managed his estate, came
in, and Scott turned to him, as I supposed, to
consult about business. ' Laidlaw,' said he, ^ to-
morrow morning we'll go across the water and
take the dogs with us : there's a place where I
think we shall be able to find a hare.'
« In short," added Wilkie, « I found that m-
stead of business, he was thinking onlj of amuse-
ment, as if he had nothing in the world to occupy
him ; so I no longer feared to intrude upon
him."
The conversation of Scott was frank, hearty,
picturesque, and dramatic. During the time of
my visit he inclined to the comic rather than the
grave, in his anecdotes and stories, and such, I
was told, was his general inclination. He relished
a joke, or a trait of humor in social intercourse,
and laughed with right good wiU. He talked not
for efiect, nor display, but from the flow of his
spirits, the stores of his memory, and the vigor
of his imagination. He had a natural turn for
narration, and his narratives and descriptions
were without effort, yet wonderfully graphic.
He placed the scene before you like a picture ;
he gave the dialogue with the appropriate dialect
or peculiarities, and described the appearance and
characters of his personages with that spirit and
felicity evinced in his writings. Indeed, his con-
versation reminded me continually of his novels ;
and it seemed to me, that, during the whole time
I was with him, he talked enough to fill volumes,
and that they could not have been filled more
delightftdly.
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ABB0T8F0RD. 817
He was as good a listener as talker, appreciat-
ing everything that others said, however humble
might be their rank or pretensions, and was quick
to testify his perception of any point in their dis-
course. He arrogated nothing to himself, but
was perfectly unassuming and unpretending, en-
tering with heart and soul into the business, or
pleasure, or, I had almost said, folly, of the hour
and the company. No one's concerns, no one's
thoughts, no one's opinions, no one's tastes and
pleasures seemed beneath him. He made him-
self so thoroughly the companion of those with
whom he happened to be, that they forgot for a
time his vast superiority, and only recollected and
wondered, when all was over, that it was Scott
with whom they had been on such familiar terms,
and in whose society they had felt so perfectly at
their ease.
It was delightful to observe the generous spirit
in which he spoke of all his literary contempo-
raries, quoting the beauties of their works, and
this, too, with respect to persons with whom he
might have been supposed to be at variance in
literature or politics. Jefl&^y, it was thought,
had ruffled his plumes in one of his reviews, yet
Scott spoke of him in terms of high and warm
eulogy, both as an author and as a man.
His humor in conversation,* as in his works,
was genial and free from all causticity. He had
a quick perception of faults and foibles, but he
looked upon poor human nature with an indulgent
eye, relishing what was good and pleasant, toler-
ating what was frail, and pitying what was eviL
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818 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
It is this beneficent spirit which gives such an air
of bonhommte to Scott's hmnor throughout all his
works. He played with the foibles and errors of
his fellow-beings, and presented them in a thou-
sand whimsical and characteristic lights, but the
kindness and generosity of his nature would not
allow him to be a satirist. I do not recollect a
sneer throughout his conversation any more than
there is throughout his works.
Such is a rough sketch of Scott, as I saw him
in private life, not merely at the time of the visit
here narrated, but in the casual intercourse of
subsequent years. Of his public character and
merits aU the world can judge. His works have
incorporated themselves with the thoughts and
concerns of the whole civilized world, for a quar-
ter of a century, and have had a controlling in-
fluence over the age in which he lived. But
when did a human being ever exercise an influ-
ence more salutary and benignant ? Who is there
that, on looking back over a great portion of his
life, does not find the genius of Scott administer-
ing to his pleasures, beguiling his cares, and sooth-
ing his lonely sorrows ? Who does not still regard
his works as a treasury of pure enjoyment, an
armory to which to resort in time of need, to flnd
weapons with which to fight off the evils and the
griefs of life ? For my own partj in periods of
dejection, I have hailed the announcement of a
new work from his pen as an earnest of certain
pleasure in store for me, and have looked forward
to it as a traveller in a waste looks to a green
spot at a distance, where he feels assured of solace
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ABBOTBFORD. 819
and refreshment. When I consider how much
he has thus contributed to the better hours of my
past existence, and how independent his works
still make me, at times, of all the world for my
enjoyment, I bless my stars that cast my lot in
his days, to be thus cheered and gladdened by
the outpourings of his genius. I consider it one
of the greatest advantages that I have derived
from my literary career, that it has elevated me
into genial communion with such a spirit; and
as a tribute of gratitude for his friendship, and
veneration for his memory, I cast this humble
stone upon his cairn, whidi will soon, I trust, bo
piled aloft with the contribution of abler hands.
21
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1
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NEWSTEAD ABBET.
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY.
HISTORICAL NOTICE.
|EIN6 aboat to give a few sketches takeo
during a three weeks' sojourn in the an-
cestral mansion of the late Lord Byron,
I think it proper to premise some brief particulars
concerning its history.
Newstead Abbey is one of the finest specimens
in existence of those quaint and romantic piles,
half castle, half convent, which remain as monu-
ments of the olden times of England. It stands,
too, in the midst of a legendary neighborhood ;
being in the heart of Sherwood Forest, and sur-
rounded by the haunts of Robin Hood and his
band of outlaws, so famous in ancient ballad and
nursery tale. It is true, the forest scarcely exists
but in name, and the tract of country over which
it once extended its broad solitudes and shades is
now an open and smiling region, cultivated with
parks and farms, and enlivened with villages.
Newstead, which probably once exerted a mo«
nasdc sway over tUs region, and controlled tho
eonscienoes of the rude foresters, was originally a
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824 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
pTk)T7, founded in the latter part of the twelfth
oentnry, by Hen]^ IL, at the time when ba
sought, by building of shrines and convents, aod
by other acts of external piety, to &piate the
murder of Thomas a Becket. The priory was
dedicated to God and the Virgin, and was inhab-
ited by a fraternity of can(»is r^nlar of St. Au-
gustine. This order was originally simple and
abstemious in its mode of living, and exemplary
in its conduct ; but it would seem that it gradu-
ally lapsed into those abuses which disgraced too
many of the wealthy monastic establishments;
Ibr there are documents among its archives which
intimate the prevalence of gross misrule and dis-
solute sensuality among its members.
At the time of the dissolution of the convents
during the reign of Henry VUI., Newstead un-
derwent a sudden reverse, being given, with the
neighboring manor and rectory of Papelwid^ to
Sir John Byron, Steward of Manchester and
Bodidale, and Lieutenant of Sherwood Forest
This ancient family worthy figures in the tradi-
tions of the Abbey, and in the ghost-stcHies with
which it abounds, under the quaint and graphic
appellation of ** Sir John Byron the little, with
the great Beard.** He converted the saintly
edifice into a castellated dwelling, making it his
fiikvorite residence and the seat of his forest juris-
diction.
The Byron fiimily being subsequently ennobbd
by a baronial title, and enriched by various pos-
sessions, maintained great style and retinue al
Newstead. The proud edifice partook, however
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IfJBWBTEAD ASSET. 825
•f the Tioiisitadefl of the times, and Lord Byron,'
in one of his poems, represents it as alternately
the soene of lordly wassailing and of dvil war :
** Haik, how the hall, resoimding to the strain,
Shakes with the martial mttslc^s novel din t
The heralds of a warrior's haughiy reign,
Hij^i-crested banners wave thj waUs within.
" Of ^h^^g hift sentinels the distant hum.
The mirth of feasts, the dang of bninish'd anns,
The brajring trampet, and the hoarser dram,
Unite in concert with increased akums."
Abont the middle of the last century, the Ab-
bey oame into the possession of another noted
character, who makes no less figure in its shadowy
traditions than Sir John the Little with the great
Beard. This was the grand-uncle of the poet,
fiuniliarly known among the gossiping chroniclers
of the Abbey as ^ the Wicked Lord Byron."
He is represented as a man of irritable passions
and yindictiTe temper, in the indulgence of which
an incident occurred which gaye a turn to his
whole character and life, and in some measure
afibcted the fortunes of the Abbey. Li his neigh-
borhood lived his kinsman and friend, Mr. Cha-
worth, proprietor of Annesley HalL Being to-
gether in London in 1765, in a dmmber of the
Star and Qarter tavern in Pall Mall, a quarrel
rose between them. Byron insisted upon settHog
it upon the spot by single combat They fought
without seconds, by the dim light of a candle ;
and Mr. Qiaworth, although the most ei^>ert
swordanan, received a mortal wound. With his
dymg bieath he rdated such. particulaiB of the '
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386 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
ooQtest as induoed the coroner's jury to return a
verdict of wilful murder. Lord Byron was sent
to the Tower, and subsequently tried before the
House of Peers, where an ultimate verdict was
^ven of manslaughter.
He retired after this to the Abbey, where he
shut himself up to brood over his disgraces ; grew
gloomy, morose, and fantastical, and indulged in
fits of passion and caprice, that made him the
theme of rural wonder and scandal. No tale
was too wild or too monstrous for vulgar belief
Like his successor the poet, he was accused of
all kinds of vagaries and wickedness. It was said
that he always went armed, a3 if prepared to
commit murder on the least provocation. At one
time, when a gentleman of his neighborhood was
to dine tcte-d-iite with him, it is said a brace of
pistols were gravely laid with the knives and
forks upon the table, as part of the regular table
furniture, and implements that might be needed
in the course of the repast. Another rumor
states, that, being exasperated at his coachman for
disobedience to orders, he shot him on the spot,
threw his body into the coach where Lady Byron
was seated, and, mounting the box, officiate in
his stead. At another time, according to the
same vulgar rumors, he threw her ladyship into
the lake in front of the Abbey, where she would
have been drowned but for the timely aid of the
gardener. These stories are doubtless exaggera^-
tions of trivial incidents which may have oc-
curred ; but it is certain that the wayward paa*
sions of this unhappy man caused a separation
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NEWSTEAD ABBE7. 327
&om his wife, and fuially spread a solitade around
him. Being displeased at the marriage of his
son, and heir, he displayed an inveterate malig-
nity towards him. Not being able to cut off his
auccession to the Abbey estate, which descended
to him by entail, he endeavored to injure it as
much as possible, so that it might come a mere
wreck into his hands. For this purpose he suf-
fered the Abbey to ^ out of repair, and every-
thing to go to waste about it, and cut down all
the timber on the estate, laying low many a tract
of old Sherwood Forest, so that the Abbey lands
lay stripped and bare of all their ancient honors.
He was baffled in his unnatural revenge by the
premature death of his. son, and passed the re-
mainder of his days in his deserted and dilap-
idated halls, a gloomy misanthrope, brooding
amidst the scenes he had laid desolate.
His wayward humors drove from him all neigh-
borly society, and for a part of the time he was
almost without domestics. In his misanthropic
mood, when at variance with all human-kind, he
took to feeding crickets, so that in process of time
the Abbey was overrun with them, and its lonely
halls made more lonely at night by their monot-
onous music. Tradition adds that, at his death,
the crickets seemed aware that they had lost their
patron and protector, for they one and all packed
up bag and baggage, and left the Abbey, trooping
across its courts and corridors in all directions.
The death of the " Old Lord," or « The Wicked
Lord Byron," for he is known by both appella-
tions, occurred in 1798; and the Abbey then
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328 cAaton miscellaitt.
passed into the possession of the poet. The lattei
was but eleven years of age, and living in humble
style with his mother in Scotland. They came
soon after to England, to take possession. Moore
gives a simple but striking anecdote of the first
arrival of the poet at the domains of his ancestors.
They had arrived at the Newstead toll-bar,
and saw the woods of the Abbey stretching out
to receive them, when Mrs. Byron, affecting to
be ignorant of the placg, asked the woman of the
toll-house to whom that seat belonged? She
was told that the owner of it, Lord Byron, had
been some months dead. ^And who is the next
heir ? *' asked the proud and happy mother.
" They say/* answered the old woman, " it is a
little boy who lives at Aberdeen." — " And this is
he, bless him ! " exclaimed the nurse, no longer
able to contain herself, and turning to kiss with
delight the young lord who was seated on her
lap.*
During Lord Byron's minority, the Abbey was
let to Lord Grey de Ruthen, but the poet visited
it occasionally during the Harrow vacations, when
he resided with his mother at lodgings in Not-
tingham. It was treated little better by its pres-
ent tenant than by the old lord who preceded
him ; so that, when, in the autumn of 1808, Lord
Byron took up his abode there, it was in a ruin-
ous condition. The following lines from his own
pen may give some idea of its ocmdition :
'Through thy battlements, Newsteod, the hollow winda
whistle,
Tlioii, the hall of my fatbera, art gone to decay;
* Moore's Life of Lord B^on»
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NEWBTEAD ABBEY. tS9^
in ihf once smiling garden, the hemlock and thisile
Have choked up the rose which once bloomed ia the
way.
** Of the mail-corered barons who, prondly, to battle
I«ed thy vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain,
The escutcheon and shield, which with every wind rattle.
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain." *
In another poem he expresses the melancholy
feeling with which he took possession of his an-
oestral mandon :
" Kewstead ! That saddening scene of change is thine,
Thy yawning arch betokens sure decay:
The last and youngest of a noble line
Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.
** Deserted now, he scans thy gray-worn towers.
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep,
lliy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers.
These — these he views, and views them but to weep.
** Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes,
Or gewgaw grottos of the vahily great;
Yet lingers *mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
Kor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate.*' f
Lord Byron had^ not fortune sufficient to put
the pile in extensive repair, nor to maintain any-
thing like the state of his ancestors. He restored
some of the apartments, so as to furnish his
mother with a comfortable habitation, and fitted
up a quaint study for himself, in which, among
books and busts, and other libraiy furniture, were
two skulls of the ancient friars, grinning on each
side of aa antique cross. One of his gay com-
• Lines on leaving Kewstead Abbey,
t Elegy on Kewstead Abbey.
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380 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
pamons gives a picture of Newstead whea thus
repaired, and the picture is sufficiently desolate.
" There are two tiers of cloisters, with a vari-
ety of cells and rooms about them, which, though
not inhabited, nor in an inhabitable state, might
easily be made so; and many of the original
rooms, among which is a fine stone hall, are still
in use. Of the Abbey church, one end only re-
mains ; and the old kitchen, with a long range
of apartments, is reduced to a heap of rubbish.
Leading fix>m the Abbey to the modem part
of the habitation is a noble room, seventy feet in
length, and twenty-three in breadth ; but every
part of the house displays neglect and decay, save
those which the present lord has lately fitted
up."*
Even the repairs thus made were but of tran-
sient benefit, for the roof being left in its di-
lapidated state, the rain soon penetrated into the
apartments which Lord Byron had restored and
decorated, and in a few years rendered them al-
most as desolate the rest of the Abbey.
Still he felt a pride in the ruinous old edifice ;
its very dreary and dismantled state addressed
itself to his poetical imagination, and to that love
of the melancholy and the grand which is evinced
in all his writings. ^ Come what may," said he
in one of his letters, ^^ Newstead and I stand or
fall together. I have now lived on the spot I
have fixed my heart upon it, and no pressure,
present or fiiture, shall induce me to biuler the
last vestige of our inheritance. I have that pride
* Letter of the late Charles Skinner Mathewi, Eaq.
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NEW8TEAD ABBE7. 881
within me which will enable me to support diffi*
colties : could I obtain in exchange for Newstead
Abbey the first fortune in the country^ I would
reject the proposition.''
His residence at the Abbey, however, was fit-
ful and uncertain. He passed occasional portions
of lime there, sometimes studiously and alone^
oftener idly and recklessly, and occasionally with
young and gay companions, in riot and revelry,
and the indulgence of all kinds of mad caprice.
The Abbey was by no means benefited by these
roistering inmates, who sometimes played off
monkish mummeries about the cloisters, at other
times turned the state-chambers into schools for
boxing and single-stick, and shot pistols in the
great halL The country people of the neigh-
borhood were as much puzzled by these mad-
cap vagaries of the new incumbent as by the
gloomier habits of the ^' old lord," and began to
think that madness was inherent in the Byron
race, or that some wayward star ruled over the
Abbey.
It is needless to enter into a detail of the cir-
cumstances which led his Lordship to sell his
ancestral estate, notwithstanding the partial pre-
dilections and hereditary feeling which he had so
eloquently expressed. Fortunately, it fell into
the hands of a man who possessed something of
a poetical temperament, and who cherished an
enthusiastic admiration for Lord Byron. Colonel
(at that time Major) Wildman had been a school-
mate of the poet, and sat with him on the same
fiorm at Harrow. He had subsequently distin-
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380 CRAYON MJTJST^^
pamons gives a picture of >^^^^
repaired, and the picture is a-^iW^ . ' .
" There are two tiers of cloister^ .
etj of cells and rooms about tbeoh ^
not inhabited, nor in an inhabftafliJ^
easily be made so; and many mif
rooms, among which is a fine stow '■^'
in use. Of the Abbey church, one
mains; and the old kitchen, with,
of apartments, is reduced to a hf
Leading from the Abbey to the ^
of the habitation is a noble room, -^
length, and twenty-three in brear *
•part of the house displays neglect .^ *•
those which the present lord b ^ *
up"""
^y^\.
-^ c:
•f«
Even the repairs thus made w
sient benefit, for the roof bein/
lapidated state, the rain soon pe .
apartments which Lord Byron \ ^
decorated, and in a few years n
most as desolate the rest of the ,^
Still he felt a pride in the re
its very dreary and dismantled
itself to his poetical ima^'natiott
of the melancholy and the grand *
in all his writings. " Come wl ^
in one of hk letters, '^NewSte^^
fall together. I have nov^ Jf v ^
b&ve fixed mylieart up^^ ifc^
present or Mure, shall iodn^^
last vestige of our ioherit^^
• Letter of the late Charles S^^^
*^
did
cued
•Qt
m
""> m.
^ Vrhh
^& in
««d and
preserved
•«<"c of the
< "^'se cou.
^f.«^e«ded
38S CRAYON MISCELLANY.
giiiBhed himself in the war of the PeninBiila, and
at the battle of Waterloo, and it was a great con-
solation to Lord Byron, in parting with his fiuniiy
estate, to know that it would be held by <Mie ci-
pable of restoring its &ded glories, and who woaM
respect and preserve all the monuments and me-
morials of his line.*
The confidence of Lord Byrcm in the good
feeling and good taste of Colonel Wildman has
been justified by the event. Under his judidoua
eye and munificent hand the venerable and ro-
* The following letter, written in the course of the tnnsfei
of the estate, has never been published : —
YewUe, Nov. 18, 1818.
Mt dkab Wildman, —
Mr. Hanson is on the eve of his return, so that I have onlf
time to return a few inadequate thanks for your veiy kind
letter. I should regret to trouble you with any requests of
mine, in regard to the preservation of any signs of my fiunily
which may still exist at Newstead, and leave eveiything of
that kind to your own feelings, present or fiiture, i^khi tbe
sul^ect. The portrait which you flatter me by desiring, would
not be worth to you your trouble and expense of such an ex-
pedition, but you may rely upon having the very first thit
may be painted, and which may seem worth your acceptance.
I trust that Newstead will, being yours, remun so, and tiiat
I may see you as happy as I am veiy sure that yon will
make your dependants. With regard to myself, you may be
sure that, whether in the fourth, or fifth, or sixth fbrm at Har-
row, or in the fluctuations of after-life, I shall always remem-
ber with regard my old schoolfellow — fbllow-monitor, and
friend, and recognize with respect the gallant soldier, who,
with all the advantages of fortune and aUurements of youtk
to a life of pleasure, devoted himself to duties of a nobler mder
and wiU receive his reward in the esteem and admiration of
hisooantiy.
Ever yours most truly and affectionately,
BTBON.
>
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NEWaTEAD ABBEY. 888
numlie pile has risen from its rains in all its old
monastic and baronial splendor, and additions have
been made to it in perfect conformitj of style. The
groves and forests have been replanted ; the lakes
and fish-ponds cleaned ont, and the gardens rescued
from the '* hemlock and thistle/' and r^tored to
their pristine and dignified formality.
The farms on the estate have been put in
complete order, new &rm-hoases built of stonci
in the picturesque and comfortable style of the
old English granges.; the hereditary tenants se*
cured in their paternal homes and treated with
the most considerate indulgence; everything, in
a word, gives happy indications of a liberal and
beneficent landlord.
What most, however, will interest the visitors
to the Abbey in &vor of its present occupant, is
the reverential care with which he has preserved
and renovated every monument and relic of the
Byron family, and every object in any wise con-
nected with the memory of the poet. Eighty
thousand pounds have already been expended
upon the venerable pile, yet the work \a still go-
ing on, and Newstead promises to realize the hope
faintly breathed by the poet when bidding it a
melancholy &rewell :
** Haply thj sim emeigfaig, yet maj dilne,
Thee to inadiate with meridian ray ;
Hmob ^endid aa the past may atiU be tUae^
And bless thy fbtore, aa thy fbrmer diqr*"
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ARRIVAL AT THE ABBEY.
HAD been passing amerrj Christmas
in the good old style at Barlboro' Hall, a
venerable family mansion in Derbyshire,
and set off to finish the holidays with the hos-
pitable proprietor of Newstead Abbey. A drive
of seventeen miles through a pleasant country,
part of it the storied region of Sherwood Forest,
brought me to the gate of Newstead Park. The
aspect of the park was by no means imposing,
the fine old trees that once adorned it having been
laid low by Lord Byron's wayward predecessor.
Entering the gate, the post-chaise rolled heavi-
ly along a sandy road, between naked declivities,
gradually descending into one of those gentle and
sheltered valleys in which the sleek monks of old
loved to nestle themselves. Here a sweep of the
road round an angle of a garden-wall brought us
i^U in &ont of the venerable edifice, embosomed in
the valley, with a beautiful sheet of water spread-
ing out before it.
The irregular gray pile, of motley architecture,
answered to the description given by Lord By-
ron:
« An old, old monasteiy once, and now
Still older mansion, of a ridi and nure
Mixed Gothic ....*'
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NEWaTEAD ABBEY. 885
One end was fortified hj a castellated tower,
bespeaking the baronial and warlike days of tbe
edifice; the other end maintained its primitiye
monastic character. A ruined chapel, flanked by
a solemn grove, still reared its &ont entire. It
is true, the threshold of the once frequented por-
tal was grass-grown, and the great lancet window,
once glorious with painted glass, was now en-
twined and overhung with ivy ; but the old con-
vent cross still braved both time and tempest on
the pinnacle of the chapel, and below, the blessed
effigies of the Virgin and child, sculptured in gray
stone, remained uninjured in their niche, giving
a sanctified aspect to the pile."**"
A flight of rooks, tenants of the adjacent
grove, were hovering about the ruin, and balanc-
ing themselves upon every airy projection, and
looked down with curious eye, and cawed as the
post-chaise rattled along below.
The chamberlain of the Abbey, a most deco-
rous personage, dressed in black, received us at
the portaL Here, too, we encountered a me*
mento of Lord Byron, a great black and white
Newfoundland dog, that had accompanied his re-
mains from Greece. He was descended from the
fiunous Boatswain, and inherited his generous
qualities. He was a cherished inmate of the
Abbey, and honored and caressed by every vis-
* ** in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd,
The Yiigin Mother of the God-bom child,
"With h^ son in her blessed arms, looked round,
Spared bj some chance, when all beside was spoU'd:
She made l^e earth below seem holy ground."
Don Juan, Canto lU
22
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3S6 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
itor. Conducted by the chamberlain, and fol-
lowed bj the dog, who assisted in doing the boo*
on of the house, we passed through a long, low
vaulted hall, supported by massive Grothic ardies,
and not a little resembling the crypt of a cathednJ«
being the basement story of the Abbey.
From this we ascended a stone staircase, at
the head of which a pair of folding- doors ad-
mitted us into a broad corridor that ran round
the interior of the Abbey. The windows of the
corridor looked into a quadrangular grass-grown
court, forming the hollow centre of the pile. Li
the midst of it rose a lofty and fiutastic foon*
tain, wrought of the same gray stone as the
main edifice, and which has been well described
by Lord Byron.
** Amidst the eonrt a Gothic fbuntain plaj'd,
Sjmmetrical, but deck*d with camngs qadnt,
Strange fiuses, like to men in masquerade,
And here perhaps a monster, there a saint:
The spring msh'd throt^h grim mouths of gruute ouida,
And sparkled into basins, where it spent
Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles,
Like man's rain glory, and his vainer troubles.** *
Around this quadrangle w^re low vaulted clois-
ters, with Gothic arches, once the secluded walks
<^ the monks : the corridor along which we were
passing was built above these cloisters, and their
hollow arches seemed to reverberate every fi)ot*
fall. Everything thus &r had a solemn monastic
air ; but, on arriving at an angle of the corridor,
the eye, glancing along a shadowy gallery, caoght
a sight of two dark figures in pkte armor, irith
• Dfm Juan, Canto IIL
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 897
doeed visorB, bucklers braced, and swords drawn,
Standing motionless against the wall. They
seemed two phantoms . of the chivalrous era <^
the Abbey.
Here the chamberlain, throwing open a folding-
door, ushered us at once into a spacious and lofty
saloon, which offered a brilliant contrast ^ the
quaint and sombre apartments we had traversed.
It was elegantly famished, and the walls hung
with paintings, yet something of its original archi-
tecture had been preserved and blended with
modem embellishments. There were the stone-
shafted casements and the deep bow-window of
former times. The carved and panelled wood-
work of the lofty ceiling had likewise been care-
fully restored, and its Gothic and grotesque de-
vices painted and gilded in their ancient style.
Here, too, were emblems of the former and
latter days of the Abbey, in the effigies of the
first and last of the Byron line that held sway
over its destinies. At the upper end of the
saloon, above the door, the dork Gothic portrait
of " Sir John Byron the Little with the great
Beard" looked grimly down finom his canvas,
while, at the opposite end, a white marble bust
of the genius loei^ the noble poet, shone oonspio-
uously from its pedestal.
The whole air and style of the apartment par-
took more of the palace than the monastery, and its
windows looked forth on a suitable prospect, com-
posed of beautiftd groves, smooth verdant lawns,
and BilTer sheets of water. Below the windows
was a small fower-garden, enclosed by stone bal-
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3S8 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
nstrades, on which were statdy peacocks, sunning
themselves and displaying their plumage. About
the grass plots in fit>nt were gay cock-pheasants,
and plump partridges, and nimble-footed water-
hens, feeding almost in perfect security.
Such was the medley of objects presented to
the ^e on first visiting the Abbey, and I found
the interior folly to answer the description of the
poet —
« The nuuiuon's self was vast and venerable,
With more of the monastic than has heen
Elsewhere preserved : the doisten stiU were stable,
The cells, too, and refectory, I ween;
An exquisite small chapel had been aUe,
Still unimpaired, to decorate the scene;
The rest had been reformed, replaced, or sank,
And spoke more of the friar than the monk.
"Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, joined
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts,
llight shock a connoisseur; but when combined
Formed a whole, which, irregular in parts,
Yet left a grand impression on the mind.
At least of those whose eyes were in their hear^."
It is not my intention to lay open the scenes
of domestic life at the Abbey, nor to describe the
festivities of which I was a partaker during my
sojourn within its hospitable walls. I wish
merely to present a picture of the edifice itself,
and of those personages and circumstances about
it connected with the memory of Byron.
I forbear, therefore, to dwell on my reception
by my excellent and amiable host and hostess,
or to make my reader acquainted with the elegant
inmates of the mansion that I met in the saloon;
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NEWBTEAD ABBEY. 889
Mid Ishall pass on at once with him to the cham-
ber allotted me, and to which I was most respect-
fiilly conducted by the chamberlain.
It was one of a magnificent suite of rooms, ex-
tending between the court of the cloisters and the
Abbey garden, the windows looking into the latter.
The whole suite formed the ancient state apart-
ment, and had &llen into decay during the neg-
lected days of the Abbey, so jui to be in a ruinous
condition in the time of Lord Byron. It had
since been restored to its ancient splendor, of
which my chamber may be dted as a specimen.
It was lofty and well proportioned; the lower
part of the walls was panelled with ancient oak,
the upper part hung with gobelin tapestry, repre-
senting Oriental hunting-scenes, wherein the fig-
ures were of the size of Hfe, and of great vivacity
of attitude and color.
The furniture was antique, dignified, and cum-
brous. High-backed chairs curiously carved, and
wrou^t in needlework ; a massive clothes-press
of -dark oak, well polished, and inlaid with land-
sci^>es of various tinted woods ; a bed of state,
ample and lofty, so as only to be ascended by a
movable flight of steps, the huge posts supporting
a high tester with a tuft of crimson plumes at
each comer, and rich curtains of crimson damask
hanging in broad and heavy folds.
A venerable mirror of plate-glass stood on the
toilet) in which belles of former centuries may
have contemplated and decorated their charms.
The floor of the chamber was of tesselated oak,
shining with wax, and partly covered by a Tor-
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340 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
kej carpet In the centre stood a massy oakes
table, waxed and p ol ishe d as smooth as glass^
and furnished with a writing-desk oi perfumed
rosewood.
A sober light was admitted into the room
through Gothic stone-shafted casements, partly
shaded by crimson curtains, and partly overshad-*
owed by the trees of the garden. This solemnly
tempered light added to the eflfect of the stately
and antiquated interior.
Two portraits, suspended over the doors, were
in keeping with the scene. They were in ancient
Vandyke dresses ; one was a cavalier, who may
have occupied this apartment in days of yore, the
other was a lady with a black velvet mask in her
hand, who may once have arrayed herself for con-
quest at the very mirror I have described.
The most curious relic of old times, however,
in this quaint but richly dight apartment, was a
great chimney-piece of panel-work, carved in high
relief with niches or compartments, eadi con-
taining a human bust, that protruded almost
entirely from the walL Some of the figures were
in ancient Gothic garb ; the most striking among
them was a female, who was eamestiy regarded
by a fierce Saracen from an adjoining niche.
This panel- work is among the mysteries of the
Abbey, and causes as much wide speculation as
the Egyptian hieroglyphics. Some suppose it to
illustrate an adventure in the Holy Land, and that
the lady in effigy had been rescued by some cru-
sader cf the frunily from the turbaned Turk who
watdies her so eamestiy. What tends to give
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NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 841
weight to these suppositions is, that similar pieces
of panel-work exist in other parts of the Abbey,
in all of which are to be seen the Christian lady
and her Saracen guardian or lover. At the bot-
tom of these sculptures are emblazoned the ar-
morial bearings of the Byrons.
I shall not detain the reader, however, with
any further description of my apartment, or of
the mysteries connected wiUi it. As he is to
pass some days with me at the Abbey, we shall
have time to examine the old edifice at our leisure,
and to make ourselves acquainted, not merely
with its interior, but likewise with its environs.
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THE ABBEY GARDEN.
I HE morning after my arrival, I rose at
an early hour. The dayKght was peer-
ing brightly between the window-cur-
tains, and drawing them apart, I gazed through
the Gothic casement upon a scene that accorded
in character with the interior of the ancient man-
sion. It was the old Abbey garden, but altered
to suit the tastes of different times and occupants.
In one direction were shady walks and alleys,
broad terraces and lofty groves ; in another,
b^ieath a gray monastic - looking angle of the
edifice, overrun with ivy and surmounted by a
cross, lay a small French garden, with formal
flower-pots, gravelled walks, and stately stone
balustrades.
The beauty of the morning, and the quiet of
the hour, tempted me to an early stroll ; for it is
pleasant to enjoy such old-time places alone, when
one may indulge poetical reveries, and spin cob-
web fancies without interruption. Dressing my-
self, therefore, with all speed, I descended a small
flight of steps from the state apartment into the
long corridor over the cloisters, along which I
passed to a door at the farther end. Here I
emerged into the open air, and, descending an-
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NEWaTEAD. ABBEY. 848
other £i^t of stone steps, found myself in the
centre of what had once been the Abbey chapeL
Nothing of the sacred edifice remained, how-
ever, but the Gothic fix)nt, with its deep portal
and grand lancet - window, already described.
The nave, the side walls, the choir, the sacristy,
all had disappeared. The open sky was over my
head, a smooth-shaven grass-plot beneath my feet.
Gravel-walks and shrubberies had succeeded to
the shadowy aisles, and stately trees to the dus*
tering columns.
" Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pall of lif^B-exdnguished day,
In sainted &me the sacred fathers grew,
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend,
Soon as the gloaming spreads her warning shade,
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Maiy paid.''
Instead of the matin orisons of the monks,
however, the ruined walls of the chapel now re-
sounded to the cawing of innumerable rooks that
were fluttering and hovering about the dark grove
which they inhabited, and preparing for their
morning flight.
My ramble led me along quiet alleys, bordered
by slumbbery, where the solitary water-hen would
now and then scud across my path, and take ref-
uge among the bushes. From hence I entered
upon a broad terraced walk, once a favorite resort
of the friars, which extended the whole length
of the old Abbey garden, passing along the an-
cient stone wall ^hich bounded it. In the cen-
tre of the garden lay one of the monkish fish-
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844 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
pools, an oblong sheet of water, deep set^ like a
mirror, in green sloping banks of turf. In ito
glassy boeom was reflected the dark mass of a
neighboring grove, one of the most important
features of the garden.
This grove goes by the sinister name of ^ the
Devil's Wood,'* and enjoys but an equivocal char-
acter in the neighborhood. It was planted by
"The Wicked Lord Byron," during the early
part of his residence at the Abbey, before his fiei-
tal duel with Mr. Chaworth. Having something
of a foreign and a classical taste, he set up leaden
statues of satyrs or fawns at each end of the
grove. The statues, like everything else about
the old Lord, fell under the suspicion and obloquy
that overshadowed him in the latter part of his
life. The country people, who knew nothing of
heathen mythology and its sylvan deities, looked
with horror at idols invested with the diabolical
attributes of horns and cloven feet They prob-
ably supposed them some object of secret worship
of the gloomy and secluded misanthrope and re-
puted murderer, and gave them the name of * The
old Lord's Devils."
I penetrated the recesses of the mystic grove.
Thero stood the ancient and much slaiidered stat-
ues, overshadowed by tall larches, and stained by
dank green mould. It is not a matter of sur-
prise that strange figures, thus behoofed and be-
homed, and set up in a gloomy grove, should
perplex the minds of the simple and superstitious
yeomanry. There are many of the tastes and
caprices of the rich, that in the eyes of the un-
educated must savor of insanity.
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 845
I was attracted to this grove, however, by mo*
morials of a more touching character. It had
been one of the favorite haunts of the late Lord
Byron. In his farewell visit to the Abbey, after
he had parted with the possessicm of it, he passed
some time in this grove, in company with his
sister ; and as a last memento, engraved their
names on the bark of a tree.
The feelings that agitated his bosom daring
this farewell visit, when he beheld round him
objects dear to his pride, and dear to his juve-
nile recollections, but of which the narrowness
of his fortune would not permit him to retain
possession, may be gathered from a passage in a
poetical epistle, written to his sister in after*
years : —
^ I did remind yon of onr own dear lake
By the old hall icHdch may be mine no more ;
Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:
Sad havoc Time must with my memoiy make
Ere thai or thou can fade these eyes before;
Though, like all things which I have loved, they aro
Resigned forever, or divided far.
" I feel almost at times as I have felt
In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and bnx>k8,
Which do remember me of where I dwelt
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books,
Gome 88 of yore upon me, and can melt
My heart with recognition of thehr looks;
And even at moments I would think I see
Some living things I love — but none like thee.*'
I searched the grove for some time, before I
found the tree on which Lord Byron had left
his frail memorial. It was an elm of peculiar
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(46 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
form, having two tranks, which sprang from the
same root, and, after growing side by side, min«
gled their branches together. He had selected
it, doubtless, as emblematical of his sister and
himself The names of Btron and Augusta
were still visible. They had been deeply cut in
the bark, but the natural growth of the tree was
gradually rendering them illegible, and a few
years hence, strangers will seek in vain for this
record of fraternal affection.
Leaving the grove, I continued my ramble
along a spacious terrace, overlooking what had
once been the kitchen - garden of the Abbey.
Below me lay the monks' stew, or fish-pond, a
dark pool, overhung by gloomy cypresses, with a
solitary water-hen swimming about in it
A little further on, and the terrace looked
down upon the stately scene on the south side of
the Abbey ; the flower-garden, with its stone bal-
ustrades and stately peacocks, the lawn, with its
pheasants and partridges, and the soft valley of
Newstead beyond.
At a distance, on the border of the lawn, stood
another memento of Lord Byron ; an oak planted
by him in his boyhood, on his first visit to the
Abbey. With a superstitious feeling inherent in
him, ho linked his own destiny with that of the
tree. " As it fares,*' said he, " so will fare my for-
tunes." Several years elapsed, many of them
passed in idleness and dissipation. He returned
to the Abbey a youth scarce grown to manhood,
but, as he thought, with vices and follies beyond
his years. He found his emblem oak ahnoet
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY, 847
dioked bj weeds and brambles, and took the
lesson to himself.
** Yoang oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground,
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine,
That thy dark waving branches would flourish around.
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.
** Such, such was my hope — wnen in infoncy's years
On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride ;
They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears —
Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.**
I leaned over the stone balustrade of the ter-
race, and gazed upon the valley of Newstead,
with its silver sheets of water gleaming in the
morning sun. It was a Sabbath morning, which
always seems to have a hallowed influence over
the landscape, probably from the quiet of the
day, and the cessation of all kinds of week-day
labor. As I mused upon the mild and beau-
tiful scene, and the way ward destinies of the man
whose stormy temperament forced him from this
tranquil paradise to battle with the passions iwvX
perils of the world, the sweet chime of bell^ from
a village a few miles distant came stealing up f^
valley. Every sight and sound this men
seemed calculated to summon up touching i
lections of poor Byron. The chime waa
the village spire of Hucknall Torkard, bei
which his remains lie buried!
1 have since visited his tomb. It i
an old gray country church, venerable with
li^>se of centuries. He lies buried beneath t^
pavement, at one end of the principal aielc. ^
light fidls on the spot through the stained glass dt
...^
848 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
a Gothic window, and a tablet on the adjaoeat
wall announces the family vault of the Bjrons.
It had been the wajwai'd intention of the poet
to be entombed, with his faithful dog, in the mon-
ument erected bj him in the garden of Newstead
Abbey. His executors showed better judgment
and feeling, in consigning his ashes to the &mily
sepulchre, to mingle with those of his mother and
his kindred. Here,
''After life's fitftil fever, he sleeps weU.
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing
Can touch him farther ! "
How nearly did his dying hour realize the
wish made by him, but a few years previously,
in one of his fitful moods of melancholy and mis-
anthropy : —
'* When time, or soon or late, shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lolls the dead,
Oblivion ! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o'er my dying bed !
'* No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep or wish the coming blow:
Ifo maiden with dishevelled hair,
To feel, or feign decorous woe.
^ But silent let me sink to earth.
With no officious mourners near:
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Kor startle friendship with a tear.**
He died among strangers, in a foreign land,
without a kindred hand to close his eyes ; yet he
did not die unwept. With all his &ults and er-
rors, and passions and caprices, he had the gift
of attaching his humble dependants warmly to
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 849
him* One of tbem, a poor Greek, accompanied
his remains to England, and followed them to the
grave. I am told that, during the ceremony, he
stood holding on bj a pew in an agony of grief,
and when all was over, seemed as if he wonld
have gone down into the tomb with the body of
his master. A nature that could inspire such
attachments, must have been generous and benef^
icent.
d by Google
PLOUGH MONDAY.
IHEBWOOD Forest is a region that still
retains mnch of the quaint customs and
holiday games of the olden time. A
day or two after my arrival at the Abbey, as I
was walking in the cloisters, I heard the sound
of rustic music, and now and then a burst of
merriment, proceeding from the interior of the
mansion. Presently the chamberlain came and
informed me that a party of country lads were
in the servants' hall, perfbrming Plough Monday
antics, and invited me to witness their mummery.
I gladly assented, for I am somewhat curious
about these relics of popular usages. The ser-
vants' hall was a fit place for the exhibition of
an old Gothic game. It was a chamber of great
extent which, in monkish times had been the
refectory of the Abbey. A row of massive col-
ums extended lengthwise through the centre,
whence sprung Gothic arches, supporting the low
vaulted ceiling. Here was a set of rustics dressed
up in something of the style represented in the
books concerning popular antiquities. One was
in a rough garb of frieze, with his head mufi9.ed
in bear-skin, and a bell dangling behind him, that
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NEW8TEAD ABBEY, dSt
jingled at every movement He was the down/
or fool of the party, probably a traditional repre-
sentative of the ancient satyr. The rest were
decorated with ribbons and armed with wooden
swords. The leader of the troop recited the old
ballad of St. George and the Dragon, which had
been current among the country people for ages ;
his companions accompanied the recitation with
some rude attempt at acting, while the down cut
all kinds of antics.
To these succeeded a set of morris-dancers,
^yly dressed up with ribbons and hawks'-bells.
In this troop we had Robin Hood and Maid
Marian, the latter represented by a smooth-&ced
boy : also, Beelzebub, equipped with a broom,
and accompanied by his wife Bessy, a termagant
old beldame. These rude pageants are the lin-
gering remains of the old customs of Plough
Monday, when bands of rustics, fantastically
dressed, and furnished with pipe and tabor,
dragged what was called the " fool plough " from
house to house, singing ballads and performing
antics, for which they were rewarded with money
and good cheer.
But it is not in "merry Sherwood Forest"
alone that these remnants of old times prevail
They are to be met with in most of the counties
north of the Trent, which classic stream seems
to be the boundary - line of primitive customs.
•During my recent Christmas sojourn at Barlboro'
Hall, on the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire,
I had witnessed many of the rustic festivitie
peculiar to that joyous season, which have rashi
23
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S5t CRAYON lilSCELLAJfT.
been pronotmoed obsolete by tbose who inm
their experience merely from citj life. I had
seen the great Yule dog put on the fire on Christ-
mas Eve, and the wassail-bowl ipent round, brim-
ming with its spicy beverage. I had heard carols
beneath my window by the choristers of the
neighboring village, who went their rounds about
the ancient Hall at midnight, according to im-
memorial custom. We had mummers and mimexs
too, with the story of St. George and the Dragon,
and other baUads and traditional dialogues, to-
gether with the &mous old interlude of the
Hobby Horse, aU represented in the antechamber
and servants' hall by rustics, who inherited the
custom and the poetry &om precedin^^ genera-
tions.
The boar's head, crowned with rosemary, had
taken its honored station among the Christmas
cheer; the festal board had been attended by
glee-singers and minstrels from the village to en-
tertain the company with hereditary songs and
catches during their repast ; and the old Pyrrhic
game of the sword-dance,^ handed down since the
time of the Romans, was admirably performed ia
the court-yard of the mansion by a band of young
men, lithe and supple in their forms and graceful
in their movements, who, I was told, went tho
rounds of the villages and country-seats during
the Christmas holidays.
I specify these rural pageants and ceremonialsi
which I saw during my sojourn in this neighbor-
hood, because it has been deemed that some of
the ^ecdotes of holiday customs giveu iu my
d by Google
NEW8TEAD ABBEY. t&ft
(H'ecediDg writings related to usages which baTe
entirely passed away. Critics who reside in
cities have little idea of the primitive manners and
observances which still prevail in remote and
rural neighborhoods.
In &ct, in crossing the Trent one seems to step
back into old times ; and in the villages of Sher-
wood Forest we are in a black-letter region.
The moss-green cottages, the lowly mansions of
gray stone, the Gothic crosses at each end of the
villages, and the tall May-pole in the centre,
transport us in imagination to foregone centuries ;
everything has a quaint and antiquated air.
The tenantry on the Abbey estate partake of
this primitive character. Some of the families
have rented farms there for nearly three hundred
years ; and, notwithstanding that their mansions
fell to decay, and everything about them partook
of the general waste and misrule of the Byron
dynasty, yet nothing could uproot them from their
native soil. I am happy to say that Colonel
Wildman has taken these stanch loyal families
under his peculiar care. He has favored them
in their rents, repaired, or rather rebuilt their
&rm-houses, and has enabled fiimilies that had
almost sunk into the class of mere rustic laborers
once more to hold up their heads among the yeo-
manry of the land.
I visited one of these renovated establishments
that had but lately been a mere ruin, and now
was a substantial grange. It was inhabited by a
young couple. The good woman showed every
part of the establishment with decent pride, ex-
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854
CRAYON MISCELLANY.
lilting in its oomfort and respectability. Her
husband, I understood, had risen in consequence
with the improvement of his mansion, and now
began to be known among his rustic neighborB
hj the appellation of ^ the young Squire."
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OLD SERVANTS.
In an old, time-worn, and mysterious-looko
ing mansion like Newstead Abbey, and
one so haunted by monkish and feudal
and poetical associations, it is a prize to meet
with some ancient crone, who has passed a long
life about the place, so as to have become a living
chronicle of its fortunes and vicissitudes. Such
a one is Nanny Smith, a worthy dame, near sev-
enty years of age, who for a long time served as
housekeeper to the Byrons. The Abbey and its
domains comprise her world, beyond which she
knows nothing, but within which she has ever
conducted herself with native shrewdness and old-
&shioned honesty. When Lord Byron sold the
Abbey, her vocation was at end, still she lingered
about the place, having for it the local attachment
of a cat Abandoning her comfortable house-
keeper's apartment, she took shelter in one of the
^rock houses,'' which are nothing more than a
little neighborhjod of cabins, excavated in the
perpendicular walls of a stone quarry, at no great
distance fix>m the Abbey. Three cells, cut in the
living rock, formed her dwelling ; these she fitted
up humbly but comfortably; her son William
labored in the neighborhood, and aided to sup*
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I
S56 CRAYON MiaCELLANT,
port her, and Nanny Smith maintained a cheerfiil
aspect and an independent spirit One of her
gossips suggested to her that William should
marry, and bring home a young wife to help her
and take care of her. " Nay, nay," replied Nanny,
tartly, " I want no young mistress in my housed
So much for the love of rule — poor Nanny's
house was a hole in a rock !
Colonel Wildman, on taking possession of the
Abbey, found Nanny Smith thus humbly nestled.
With that active benevolence which characterizes
him, he immediately set William up in a small
&rm on the estate, where Nanny Smith has a
comfortable mansion in her old days. Her pride
is roused by her son's advancement She re-
marks with exultation that people treat William
with much more respect now that he is a former,
than they did when he was a laborer. A former
of the neighborhood has even endeavored to make
a match between him and his sister, but Nanny
SmiUi has grown fosddious, and inteifered. Tli^
girl, she said, was too old for her son ; besides,
she did not see that he was in any need of a wife.
" No," said William, *' I ha' no great mind to
marry the wench; but if the Colonel and his
lady wish it, I am willing. They have been so
kind to me that I should think it my duty to
please them." The Colonel and his lady, how-
ever, have not thought proper to put honest Wil-
liam's gratitude to so severe a test
Another worthy whom Colonel Wildman found
vegetaEting upon the place, and who had lived
there for at least sixty years, was old Joe Mornqf;
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NEWaTEAD ABBEY. 857
He had oome there when a mere hoj in the tnun
t)f the ^ old lord/' about the middle of the last
century, and had continued with him until his
death. Having been a cabin-boy when very
young, Joe always fancied himself a bit of a sailor,
and had charge of all the pleasure-boats on the
lake, though he afterwards rose to the dignity of
butler. In the latter days of the old Lord
Byron, when he shut himself up from all the
world, Joe Murray was the only servant retained
by him, excepting his housekeeper, Betty Hard-
staff, who was reputed to have an undue sway
over him, and was derisively called Lady Betty,
among the country folk.
When the Abbey came into the possession of
the late Lord Byron, Joe Murray accompanied it
as a £xture. He was reinstated as butler in the
Abbey, and high admiral on the lake, and his
sturdy honest mastiff qualities won so upon Lord
Byron as even to rival his Newfoundland dog in
nis affections. Oflen, when dining, he would pour
out a bumper of choice Madeira, and hand it to
Joe as he stood behind his chair. In fact, when
he built the monumental tomb which stands in
the Abbey garden, he intended it for himself, Joe
Murray, and the dog. The two latter were to
lie on each side of him. Boatswain died not long
afterwards, and was regularly interred, and the
well-known epitaph inscribed on one side of the
monument Lord Byron departed for Greece;
during his absence a gentleman, to whom Joe
Murray was showing the tomb, observed, " Well,
old boy, you will take your place here some
twenty years hence."
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35S CRAYON MISCELLANY.
^ I don't know that, sir/' growled Joe, in reply $
'* if I was sure his Lordship would come here, I
should like it well enough, but I should not like
to lie alone with the dog."
Joe Murray was always extremely neat in his
dress, and attentive to his person, and made a
most respectable appearance. A portrait of him
still hangs in the Abbey, representing him a hale
fresh-looking fellow, in ^ flaxen wig, a blue coat
and buff waistcoat, with a pipe in his hand. He
discharged all the duties of his station with great
fidelity, unquestionable honesty, and much out-
ward decorum ; but, if we may believe his con-
temporary, Nanny Smith, who, as housekeeper,
shared the sway of the household with him, he
was very lax in his minor morals, and used to
sing loose and profane songs as he presided at the
table in the servants' hall, or sat taking his^ ale
and smoking his pipe by the evening fire. Joe
had evidently derived his convivial notions from
the race of English country squires who flourished
in the days of his juvenility. Nanny Smith was
scandalized at his ribald songs, but -being above
harm herself, endured them in silence. At length,
on his singing them before a young girl of six-
teen, she could contain herself no longer, but read
him a lecture that made his ears ring, and then
flounced off to bed. The lecture seems, by her
account, to have staggered Joe, for he told her the
next morning that he had' had a terrible dream
in the night An Evangelist stood at the foot of
his bed with a great Dutch Bible, which he held
with the printed part towards him, and after a
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NEW8TEAD ABBEY, 359
while pushed it in his face. Nanny Smith un-
dertook to interpret the vision, and read from it
such a homilj, and deduced such awftd warmngs,
that Joe became quite serious, left off singing, and
took to reading good books for a month ; but
after that, continued Nanny, he relapsed and be-
came as bad as ever, and continued to sing loose
and pro&ne songs to his dying day.
When Colonel Wildman became proprietor of
the Abbey, he found Joe Murray flourishing in a
green old age, though upwards of fourscore, and
continued him in his station as butler. The old
man was rejoiced at the extensive repairs that
were immediately commenced, and anticipated
with pride the day when the Abbey should rise
out of its ruins with renovated splendor, its gates
be thronged with trains and equipages, and its
halls once more echo to the sound of joyous hos-
pitality.
What chiefly, however, concerned Joe's pride
and ambition, was a plan of the Colonel's to
have the ancient refectory of the convent, a great
vaulted room, supported by Gothic columns, con-
verted into a servants' hall. Here Joe looked
forward to rule the roast at the head of the ser-
vants' table, and to make the Gothic arches ring
with those hunting and hard-drinking ditties
which were the horror of the discreet Nanny
Smith. Time, however, was fast wearing away
with him, and his great fear was that the hall
would not be completed in his day. In his eager-
ness to hasten the repairs, he used to get up
early in the morning, and ring up the workmen.
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d0O CRAYON MISCELLANY,
Notwithstanding his great age, also, he would
turn out half-dressed in cold weather to cut sticka
for the fire. Colonel Wildmau kindly remon-
strated with him for thus risking his health, as
others would do the work for him.
'^ Lord, sir," exclaimed the hale old fellow,
" it 's my air-bath, I 'm all the better for it"
Unluckily, as he was thus employed one morn-
ing, a splinter flew up and wounded one of his
eyes. An inflammation took place ; he k>st the
sight of that eye, and subsequently of the other*
Poor Joe gradually pined away, and grew mel-
ancholy. Colonel Wildman kindly tried to cheer
him up. " Come, come, old boy," cried he, ^ be
of good heart ; you will yet take your place in the
servants* hall."
" Nay, nay, sir," replied he, " I did hope once
that I should live to see it : I looked forward to
it with pride, I confess ; but it is all over with me
now, — I shall soon go home ! "
He died shortly afterwards, at the advanced
age of eighty-six, seventy of which had been
passed as an honest and &ithful servant at the
Abbey. Colonel Wildman had him decently in-
terred in the church of Hucknall Torkard, near
the vault of Lord Byron.
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SUPERSTITIONS OF THE ABBEY*
I HE anecdotes I had heard of the quon«
dam housekeeper of Lord Byron, ren-
dered me desirous of paying her a visit.
I rode in company with Colonel Wildman, there-
fore, to the cottage of her son William, where
she resides, and found her seated by her firoside,
with a favorite cat perched upon her shoulder and
purring in her ear. Nanny Smith is a large,
good-looking woman, a specimen of the old-fash-
ioned country housewife, combining antiquated
notions and prejudices, and very limited informa- -
taon, with natural good sense. She loves to gos-
sip about the Abbey and Lord Byron, and was
soon drawn into a course of anecdotes, though
mostly of an humble kind, such as suited the
meridian of the housekeeper's room and servants'
hall. She seemed to entertain a kind recollection
of IjGrd Byron, though she had evidently been
much perplexed by some of his vagaries ; and
especially by the means he adopted to counteract
his tendency to corpulency. He used various
modes to sweat himself down : sometimes he
would lie for a long time in a warm bath, some-
timee he would walk up the hiUs in the park.
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802 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
wrapped np and loaded with great-coats ; ^ a sad
toil for the poor yoath," added Nanny, ^ he being
80 lame."
His meals were scanty and irregular, consisting
of dishes which Nanny seemed to hold in great
contempt, sach as pikw, maccaroni, and light
puddmgs.
She contradicted the report of the licentious life
which he was reported to lead at the Abbey, and
of the paramours said to have been brought with
him &om London. ^A great part of his time
used to be passed lying on a sofa reading. Some*
times he had young gentlemen of his acquaint-
ance with him, and they played some mad
pranks ; but nothing but what young gentlemen
may do, and no harm done."
" Once, it is true," she added, " he had with
him a beautii^l boy as a page, which the house*
maids said was a girl. For my part, I know
nothing about it. Poor soul, he was so lame he
could not go out much with the men; all the
comfort he had was to be a little with the lasses.
The housemaids, however, were very jealous ;
one of them, in particular, took the matter in
great dudgeon. Her name was Lucy ; she was
a great fevorite with Lord Byron, and had been
much noticed by him, and began to have high
notions. She had her fortune told by a man who
squinted, to whom she gave two-and-sixpenoe*
He told her to hold up her head and look high,
for she would come to great things. Upon this,^
added Nanny, ^ the poor thing dreamt of nothing
less than becoming a lady, and mistress of the
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 868
Abbej; and promised me, if such luck should
happen to her, she would be a good friend to me*
Ah, welladay I Lucy never had the fine fortune
she dreamt of; but she had better than I thought
for ; she is now married, and keeps a public house
at Warwick."
Finding that we listened to her with great at-
tention, Namij Smith went on with her gossiping.
<< One times" said she, ^' Lord Byron took a notion
that there was a deal of money buried about the
Abbey by the monks in old times, and nothing
would serve him but he must have the flagging
taken up in the cloisters ; and they digged and
digged, but found nothing but stone coffins full
of bones. Then he must needs have one of the
coffins put in one end of the great hall, so that
the servants were afraid to go there of nights.
Several of the skulls were cleaned and put in
frames in his room. I used to have to go into
the room at night to shut the windows, and if I
glanced an eye at them, they all seemed to grin ;
which I believe skulls always do. I can't say
but I was glad to get out of the room.
" There was at one time (and for that matter
there is still) a good deal said about ghosts haunt-
ing about the Abbey. The keeper's wife said she
saw two standing in a dark part of the cloisters
just opposite the chapel, and one in the garden by
the lord's welL Then there was a young lady, a
cousin of Lord Byron, who was staying in the
Abbey and slept in the room next the dock ; and
die told me that one night when she was lying in
bed, she saw a lady in white come out of the wall
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SM CRAYON MISCELLANY.
on one side of the room, and go into the w#
the opposite side. i
<*Lord Byron one day said to me, *F
what nonsCTise they tell about ghosts, as i
ever were any such things. I have nev
anything of the kind about the Abbej
warrant you have not.* This was all
you see, to draw me out; but I said i^
shook my head. However, they say hi
did once see something. It was in
hall: something all black and hairy;
was the deviL
"For my part,'* continued Nann}
never saw anything of the kind, -—
something once. I was one evenL
the floor of the little dining-room at
long gallery ; it was after dark ; I f
moment to be called to tea, but w
what I was about. All at once
footsteps in the great hall. The
the tramp of a horse. I took tht
to see what it was. I heard the -
the lower end of the hall to the "
centre, where they stopped ; but , ^
ing. I returned to my work, ai " — ^ ~
heard the same noise again. I * " * ^ .5. ^ ^^
the light; the footsteps stoppe^ ~ ^^c ^ "•^ -
as before; still I could see no^ "^ ^ ,vr'**" * i
10 my work, when I heard thir^ "*" - 4 ^^"^ '^-^j
time. I then went into the hr^ '*'^^ii*«^ ,, "^ ^i
but they stopped just the san ""^"^^^t^i t^ ^^^^ ^ :2Vt^
half-way up the halL I thoug"^ Ctf ^ "*' o>r,ti
hut returned to my work. Wh^ ^^^ii^z^^ ''^''^='*'-*n. v i
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NEW3TEAD ABBEY. 86S
I took the light and went through the hall, as
that was my way to the kitchen. I heard no
more footsteps, and thought no more of the mat*
ter, when, on coming to the lower end of the hall,
I found the door locked, and then, on one side of
the door, I saw the stone coffin with the skull and
bones that had been digged up in the cbisters."
Here Nanny paused : I asked her if she be-
lieved that the mysterious footsteps had any con-
nection with the skeleton in the coffin ; but she
shook her head, and would not commit herself.
"We took our leave of the good old dame shortly
afler, and the story she had related gave subject
for conversation on our ride homeward. It was
evident she had spoken the truth as to what she
had heard, but had been deceived by some pecu-
liar effect of sound. Noises are propagated
about a huge irregular edifice of the kind in a
very deceptive manner; footsteps are prolonged
and reverberated by the vaulted cloisters and
echoing halls ; the creaking and slamming of dis-
tant gates, the rushing of the blast through the
groves and among the ruined arches of the chapel,
have all a strangely delusive effect at night
Cblcmel Wikiman gave an instance of the kind
fix>m his own experience. Not long after he had
taken up his residence at the Abbey, he heard
one moonlight night a noise as if a carriage was
passing at a distance. He opened the window
and leaned out It then seemed as if the great
iron roller was dragged along the gravel-walks
and terraoe, but there was nothing to be seen.
Wbea he saw the gardener on the following
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866 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
morniogy he questioned him about working so
late at night. The gardener declared that no
one had been at work, and the roller was chained
up. He was sent to examine it, and came back
with a cotmtenance full of surprise. The roller
had been moved in the night, but he declared no
mortal hand could have moved it " Well," re-
plied the Colonel, good-humoredly, "I am glad
to find I have a brownie to work for me.**
Lord Byron did much to foster and give cur-
rency to the superstitious tales connected with
the Abbey, by believing, or pretending to be-
lieve in tiiem. Many have supposed that his
mind was really tinged with superstition, and that
this innate infirmity was increased by passing
much of his time in a lonely way, about the
empty halls and cloisters of the Abbey, then in
a ruinous melancholy state, and brooding over the
skuUs and effigies of its former inmates. I should
rather think that he found poetical enjoyment in
these supernatural themes, and that his imagina-
tion delighted to people this gloomy and romantic
pile with all kinds of shadowy inhabitants. Cer-
tain it is, the aspect of the mansion under the
varying influence of twilight and moonlight, and
cloud and sunshine operating upon its halls, and
galleries, and monkish cloisters, is enough to
breed all kinds of fimcies in the minds of its
inmates, especially if poetically or superstitiously
inclined.
I have already mentioned some of the fabled
visitants of the Abbey. The goblin friar, how-
ever, is the one to whom Lord Byron has given
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NEW8TEAD ABBEY, 867
the greatest importance. It wfdked the cloisters
bj night, and sometimes glimpses of it were seen
in other parts of the Abbey. Its appearance was
said to portend some impending evil to the master
of the mansion. Lord Byron pretended to have
seen it about a month before he contracted his
ill-starred marriage with Miss Milbanke.
He has embodied this tradition in the follow-
ing ballad, in which he represents the friar as one
of the ancient inmates of the Abbey, maintaining
by night a kind of spectral possession of it, in
right of the fraternity. Other traditions, how-
ever, represent him as one of the friars doomed
to wander about the place in atonement for hia
crimes. But to the ballad.
" Beware ! beware! of the Black Friar,
Who sitteth by Norman stone,
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air,
And his mass of the days that are gone.
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville,
Made Norman Church his prey,
And expelPd the friars, one friar still
Would not be driven away.
*' Though he came in his might, with King Hemy's right,
To turn church lands to lay,
With sword in hand, and torch to light
Their walls, if they said nay,
A monk remained, unchased, unchain'd.
And he did not seem formed of day,
For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen In the chmch,
Though he is not seen by day.
•* And whether for good, or whether for ill.
It is not mine to say ;
But still to the house of AmundevOle
He abideth night and day.
24
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868 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
"By the marriage-bed of their lords, *t is sai^
He flits on the bridal eve;
And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death
He comes — but not to grieve.
** When an heir is bom, he is heard to rnonm,
And when aught is to befall
That ancient Hue, in the pale moonshine
He walks from hall to hall.
His form you may trace, but not hie fiice,
'T is shadowed by his cowl;
But his eyes may be seen from the folds betireen
And they seem of a parted soul.
**' Bat beware ! beware of the Black Friar,
He still retains his sway,
For he is yet the church's heir
Whoever may be the lay.
Amundeville is lord by day,
But the monk is lord by night,
Kor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal
To question that friar's right
** Say naught to him as he walks the hall,
And he '11 say naught to you;
He sweeps along in his dusky pall,
As o'er the grass the dew.
Then gramercy ! for the Black Friar;
Heaven sain him ! fair or foul.
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer,
Let ours be for his soul."
Such is the story of the goblin friar, which,
partly through old tradition, and partly through
tinflueniN3 of Lord Byron's rhymes, has he-
k completely established in the Abbey, and
pens to hold possession as long as Uie old
re aluiU endure. Various visitors have either
ed, or pretended to have seen him, and a
^ of Lord Byron, Miss Sally ParkiaSy is
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i
NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 8W
even said to have made a sketch of him from
memory. Ab to the servants at the Abbej, they
have become possessed with all kinds of super-
stitious fancies. The long corridors and Gothic
halls, with their ancient portraits and dark figures s
in armor, are all haunted regions to them ; they
even fear to sleep alone, and will scarce venture
at night on any distant errand about the Abbey
unless they go in couples.
Even the magnificent chamber in which I was
lodged was subject to the supernatural influences
which reigned over the Abbey, and was said to
be haunted by " Sir John Byron the Little with
the great Beard." The ancient black-looking
portrait of this family worthy, which hangs over
the door of the great saloon, was said to descend
occasionally at midnight from the frame, and walk
the rounds of the state apartments. Nay, his
visitations were not confined to the night, for a
young lady, on a visit to the Abbey some years
since, declared that, on passing in broad day by
the door of the identical chamber I have de-
scribed, which stood partly open, she saw Sir
John Byron the Little seated by the fireplace,
reading out of a great black-letter book. From
this circumstance some have been led to suppose
that the story of Sir John Byron may be in some
measure connected with the mysterious sculptures
of the chimneypiece already mentioned ; but this
has no countenance from the most authentic anti-
quarians of the Abbey.
For my own part, the moment I learned the
wonderful stories and strange suppositions con*
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870 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
nected with my apartment, it became an imagi-
nary realm to me. As I lay in bed at night and
gazed at the mysterious panel-work, where Gothic
knight, and Christian dame, and Faynim lover
gazed upon me in effigy, I used to weave a thou-
sand fancies concerning them. The great figures
in the tapestry, also, were almost animated by the
workings of my imagination, and the Vandyke
portraits of the cavalier and lady that looked
down with pale aspects from the wall, had almost
a spectral effect, from their immovable gaze and
silent companionship ; —
** For by dim lights the portraits of the dead
Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread.
.... Their buried lockis still wave
Along the canvas ; their eyes glance like dreams
On onrs, as spars within some dusky cave,
But death is mingled in their shadowy beams.*'
In this way I used to conjure up fictions of
the brain, and clothe the objects around me with
ideal interest and import, unti^ as the Abbey
dock tolled midnight, I almost looked to see Sir
John Byron the Little with the long Beard stalk
into the room with his book under his arm, and
sake his seat beside the mysterious chimneypieoe.
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ANNESLEY HALL.
IT about three miles' distance from New-
stead Abbey, and contiguous to its lands,
is situated Anneslej Hall, the old fam-
ily mansion of the Chaworths. The families,
like the estates, of the Byrons and Chaworths
were connected in former times, until the fatal
duel between their two representatives. The
feud, however, which prevailed for a time, prom-
ised to be cancelled by the attachment of two
youthful hearts. While Lord Byron was yet a
boy, he beheld Mary Ann Chaworth, a beautiful
girl, and the sole heiress of Annesley. With
that susceptibility to female charms which he
evinced almost from childhood, he became almost
immediately enamored of her. According to one
of his biographers, it would appear that at first
their attachment was mutual, yet clandestine.
The fether of Miss Chaworth was then living,
and may have retained somewhat of the family
hostility, for we are told that the interviews of
Liord Byron and the young lady were private, at
a gate which opened from her father's grounds to
those of Newstead. However, they were so
yeoDg at the time that these meetings could not
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872 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
have been regarded as of any importance : they
were little more than children in years ; bnt, as
Lord Byron says of himself, his feelings were
beyond his age.
The passion thus early conceived was blown
into a flame, during a six weeks' vacation whidi
he passed with his mother at Nottingham. The
father of Miss Chaworth was dead, and she re-
sided with her mother at the old Hall of Annes-
ley. During Byron's minority, the estate of
Newstead was let to Lord Grey de Ruthen, but
its youthful Lord was always a welcome guest
at the Abbey. He would pass days at a time
there, and make frequent visits thence to Annes-
ley Hall. His visits were encouraged by Miss
Chaworth's mother; she partook none of the
family feud, and probably looked with compla-
cency upon an attachment that might heal old
dijBTerences and unite two neighboring estates.
The six weeks' vacation passed as a dream
amongst the beautiful flowers of Annesley. Byron
was scarce fifteen years of age, Mary Chaworth
was two years older; but his hearty as I have
said, was beyond his age, and his tenderness for
her was deep and passionate. These early loves,
like the first run of the uncrushed grape, are the
sweetest and strongest gushings of the benrt, nnd
however they may be superseded by other ^' '^
ments in after-years, the memory will 2oa^ -
recur to them, and fondly dwell upon
oUections.
His love for Miss Chawortb, to
Byron's own expression, was ^^ the ro
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-m
NEW8THA2) ABBEY. 879
tbe most romantic period of his life," and I think
we can trace the effect of it throughout the whole
course of his writings, coming up every now and
then, like some lurking theme which runs through
a complicated piece of music, and links it all in
a pervading chain of melody.
How tenderly and mournfully does he recall,
m after-years, the feelings awakened in his youth-
ful and inexperienced hosom by this impassioned,
yet innocent attachment; feelings, he says, lost
or hardened in the intercourse of life : —
" The love of better things and better days;
Tbe nnbonnded hope, and heavenly ignoranoe
Of what is called the world, and the world's ways;
The moments when we gather from a glance
More joy than from all future pride or praise,
Which kindle manhood, but can ne*er entrance
The heart in an existence of its own,
Of which another's bosom is the zone."
Whether this love was really responded to by
the object, is uncertain. Byron sometimes speaks
as if he had met with kindness in return, at other
times he acknowledges that she never gave him
reason to believe she loved him. It is probable,
however, that at first she experienced some flut-
terings of the heart She was of a susceptible
age ; had as yet formed no other attachments ;
her lover, though boyish in years, was a man in
intellect, a poet in imagination, and had a coun-
tenance of remarkable beauty.
With the six weeks' vacation ended this brief
romance. Byron returned to school deeply enam^
ored ; but if he had really made any imfuresaioo
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874 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
on Miss Chaworth's heart, it was too sL'ght to
stand the test of absence. She was at that age
when a female soon changes from the girl to the
woman, and leaves her boyish lovers fax behind
her. While Byron was pursuing his school-boy
studies, she was mingling with society, and met
with a gentleman of the name of Musters, re-
markable, it is said, for manly beauty. A story
is told of her having first seen him from the top
of Annesley Hall, as he dashed through the park,
with hound and horn, taking the lead of the
whole field in a fox -chase, and that she was
struck by the spirit of his appearance, and his
admirable horsemanship. Under such favorable
auspices he wooed and won her ; and when Lord
Byron next met her, he learned to his dismay
that she was the affianced bride of another.
With that pride of spirit which always distin-
guished him, he controlled his feelings and main-
tained a serene countenance. He even affected
to speak calmly on the subject of her approaching
nuptials. " The next time I see you," said he,
" I suppose you will be Mrs. Chaworth," (for she
was to retain her family name.) Her reply was,
" I hope so."
I have given these brief details preparatory to
a sketch of a visit which I made to the scene of
this youthful romance. Annesley Hall I under-
stood was shut up, neglected, and almost in a
state of desolation ; for Mr. Musters rarely visited
it, residing with his family in the neighborhood
of Nottingham. I set out for the Hall on horse-
back, in company with Colonel Wildman, and
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 876
followed bj the great Newfoundland dog Boat-
swain. In the course of our ride we visited a
spot memorable in the love-story I have cited.
It waa the scene of this parting interview be-
tween Byron and Miss • Chaworth, prior to her
marriage. A long ridge of upland advances into
the valley of Newstead, like a promontory into a
lake, and was formerly crowned by a beautiful
grove, a landmark to the neighboring country.
The grove and promontory are graphically de-
scribed by Lord Byron in his " Dream," and an
exquisite picture given of himself, and the lovely
object of his boyish idolatry : —
" I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hiU,
Green, and of mild declivity, the last
As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men,
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofe ; — the hill
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed.
Not by the sport of Nature, but of man :
These two a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her;
And both were fair, and one was beautiful :
And both were young — yet not unlike in youth.
As the sweet moon in the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the verge of womanhood:
The boy had fewer simimers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved &ce on earth,
And that was shining on him.*'
I Stood upon the spot consecrated by this
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876 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
memorable interview. Below me extended liie
^living landscape," once contemplated hj tbe
loving pair; the gentle valley of Newstead, di-
versified by woods and cornfields, and village
spires, and gleams of water, and the distant
towers and pinnacles of the venerable Abbey.
The diadem of trees, however, was gone. The
attention drawn to it by the poet, and the roman-
tic manner in which he had associated it with his
early passion for Mary Chaworth, had nettled the
irritable feelings of her husband, who but iH
brooked the poetic celebrity conferred on his
wife by the enamored verses of another. The
celebrated grove stood on his estate, and in a fit
of spleen he ordered it to be levelled with llie
dust. At the time of my visit the mere roots of
the trees were visible; but the hand that laid
them low is execrated by every poetical pilgrim.
Descending the hill, we soon entered a part
of what once was Annesley Park, and rode
among time-worn and tempest-riven oaks and
elms, with ivy clambering about their trunks, and
rooks' nests among their branches. The park
had been cut up by a post-road, crossing which,
we came to the gate-house of Annesley HalL
It was an old brick building that might have
served as an outpost or barbacan to the Hall
during the civil wars, when every gentleman's
house was liable to become a fortress. Loopholes
were still visible in its walls, but the peaceful
ivy had mantled the sides, overrun the roo^ and
almost buried the ancient clock in fronts that still
marked the waning hours of its decay.
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NEWaTEAD ABBEY. 877
An ardied way led tlirough the centre of the
^te-house, secured by grated doors of open iron*
work, wrought into flowers and flourishes. These
being thrown open, we entered a paved court*
yaa^, decorated with shrubs and antique flower-
pots, with a ruined stone fountain in the centre.
The whole approach resembled that of an old
French chateau.
On one side of the court-yard was a range of
stables, now tenantless, but which bore traces of
the fox-hunting squire; for there were stalls
boxed up, into which the hunters might be turned
loose when they came home from th» chase.
At the lower end of the court, and immedi-
ately opposite the gate-house, extended the Hall
itself; a rambling, irregular pile, patched and
pieced at various times, and in various tastes,
with gable ends, stone balustrades, and enormous
chimneys, that strutted out like buttresses from
the walls. The whole front of the edifice was
overrun with evergreens.
We applied for admission at the front door,
which was under a heavy porch. The portal
was strongly barricadoed, and our knocking was
echoed by waste and empty halls. Everything
bore an appearance of abandonment, ^ter a
lime, however, our knocking summoned a solitary
tenant from some remote comer of the pile. It
was a decent-looking little dame, who emerged
from a side-door at a distance, and seemed a wor-
thy inmate of the antiquated mansion. She had,
in fact, grown old with it. Her name, she said,
was Nanny Marsden; if she lived until next
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378 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
August, she would be seventy-one : a great part
of her life had been passed in the Hall, and when
the family had removed to Nottingham, she had
been left in charge of it The front of the house
had been thus warily barricadoed in consequence
of the late riots at Nottingham, in the course
of which the dwelling of her master had been
sacked by the mob. To guard against any at-
tempt of the kind upon the Hall, she had put it
in this state of defence ; though I rather think
she and a superannuated gardener comprised the
whole garrison. ^^ You must be attached to the
old building," said I, " after having lived so long
in it." — " Ah, sir ! " replied she, " I am getting in
yearsy and have a fiimished cottage of my own
in Annesley Wood, and begin to feel as if I
should like to go and live in my own home."
Guided by the worthy little custodian 'of the
fortress, we entered through the sally-port by
which she had issued forth, and soon found our-
selves in a spacious but somewhat gloomy hall,
where the light was partially admitted through
square stone-shafted windows, overhung with ivy.
Everything around us had the air of an old-
fashioned country squire's establishment. In the
centre of the hall was a billiard-table, and about
the walls were hung portraits of race-horses, hunt-
ers, and favorite dogs, mingled indiscriminately
with family pictures.
Staircases led up from the hall to various
apartments. In one of the rooms we were shown
a couple of buff jerkins, and a pair of ancient
jackboots^ of the time of the cavaliers; relics
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NEWaTEAD ABBEY. 379
which are often to be met with in the old Eng-
lish family mansions. These, however, had pe-
culiar value, for the good little dame assured us
they had belonged to Hobin Hood. As we were
In the midst of the region over which that famous
outlaw once bore rufi&an sway, it was not for us
to gainsay his claim to 91iy of these venerable
relics, though w« might have demurred that the
articles of dress here shown were of a date much
later than his time. Every antiquity, however,
about Sherwood Forest is apt to be linked with
the memory of Eobin Hood and his gang.
As we were strolling about the mansion, our
four-footed attendant, Boatswain, followed leisure-
ly, as if taking a survey of the premises. I turned
to rebuke him for his intrusion, but the moment
the old housekeeper understood he had belonged
to Lord Byron, her heart seemed to yearn towards
him.
" Nay, nay," exclcumed she, " let him alone,
let him go where he pleases. He's welcome.
Ah, dear me ! If he lived here I should take
great care of him — he should want for nothing.
Well ! ** continued she, fondling him, " who would
have thought that I should see a dog of Lord
Byron in Annesley Hall ! '*
" I suppose, then," said I, " you recollect some-
thing of Lord Byron, when he used to visit
here .? " — " Ah, bless him ! " cried she, « that I
do ! He used to ride over here and stay three
days at a time, and sleep in the blue room. Ah 1
poor fellow ! He was very much taken with my
young mistress ; he used to walk about the gar-
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880 CRATON MISCELLANY.
den and the terraces with her, and seemed to
love the very ground she trod on. He used to
call her kU bright morning star of Annedey.**
I felt the heauti^ poetic phrase thrill through
me*
" You appear to like the memory of Lord By-
ron," said I.
" Ah, sir ! why should not I ? He was al-
ways main good to me when he came here.
Well ! well ! they say it is a pity he and my
young lady did not make a match. Her mother
would have liked it He was always a welcome
guest, and some think it would have been weU
for him to have had her ; but it was not to be I
He went away to school, and then Mr. Musters
saw her, and so things took their course.*'
The simple soul now showed us into the fa-
vorite sitting-room of Miss Chaworth, with a
small flower-garden under the windows, in which
she had delighted. In this room Byron used to
sit and listen to her as she played and sang^
gazing upon her with the passionate and almost
painful devotion of a love-sick stripling. He
himself gives us a glowing picture of his mate
idolatry : —
" He had no breath, no bemg, but in hers ;
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words ; she was his sight,
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which colored all his objects; — he had ceased
To live within himself; she was his life.
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all: upon a tone,
▲ touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY, 8S1^
And his disek change tempestiumBlj — his hoari
Unknowiiig of its cause of agonj.'*
There was a little Webh air, called ^ Mary Ann,"
which, from bearing her own name, he associated
with herseli^ and often persuaded her to sing it
oyer and over for him.
The chamber, like all the other parts of the
house, had a look of sadness and neglect; the
flowerets beneath the window, which cmoe
bloomed beneath the hand of Mary Chaworth,
were oyerrun with weeds ; and the piano, which
had once vibrated to her touch, and thrilled the
heart of her stripling lover, was now unstrung
and out of tune.
We continued our stroll about the waste apart-
ments, of all shapes and sizes, and without much
elegance of decoration. Some of them were hung
with fiunilj portraits, among which was pointed
out that of the Mr. Chaworth who was killed by
the " wicked Lord Byron."
These dismal-looking portraits had a powerful
effect upon the imagination of the stripling poet,
en his first visit to the Hall. As they gazed down
from the wall, he thought they scowled upon him,
as if they had .taken a grudge against him on ac*
count of the duel of his ancestor. He even gave
this as a reason, though probably in jest, for not
Bleeping at the Hall, declaring that he feared they
would come down from their frames at ni^t io
haunt him.
A feeling of the kind he has embodied in one
of his stanzas of ^ Don Juan " :
^ The fbnns of the grim knights and pictured saints
Look living in the moon; and as you turn
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^882 CRAYON MiaCELLANT,
Backward and forwaid to the echoes fiunt
Of your own footsteps — voices from the nm
Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint
Start from the frames which fence their aspects stent,
As if to ask yon how you dare to keep
A vigil there, where all but death should sleep."
Nor was the youthful poet singular in these
fancies ; the Hall, like most old English mansions
that have ancient family portraits hanging about
their dusky galleries and waste apartments, had
its ghost-story connected with these pale memo-
rials of the dead. Our simple-hearted conductor
stopped before the portrait of a lady, who had
been a beauty in her time, and ii]^bited the
Hall in the heyday of her charms. Something
mysterious or melancholy was connected with her
story ; she died young, but continued for a long
time to haunt the ancient mansion, to the great
dismay of the servants, and the occasional dis-
quiet of the visitors, and it was with much diffi-
culty her troubled spirit was conjured down and
put to rest
From the rear of the Hall we walked out into
the garden, about which Byron used to stroll and
loiter in company with Miss Chaworth. It was
laid out in the old French style. There was a
long terraced walk, with heavy stone balustrades
and sculptured urns, overrun with ivy and ever-
greens. A neglected shrubbery bordered one
side of the terrace, with a lofty grove inhabited
by a venerable community of rooks. Great
flights of steps led down ^om the terrace to a
flower-garden, laid out in formal plots. The rear
of the Hall, which overlooked the garden, had
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NEW8TEAD ABBEY. ilSfe
ihe weather-etaiiis of centuries; and its stone-
shafted casements, and an ancient sun-dial against
its wallSy carried back the mind to days of jore.
The retired and quiet garden, once a little se-
questered world of love and romance, was now
fJl matted and wild, yet was beautiful even in its
decay. Its air of neglect and desolation was in
unison with the fortune of the two beings who
had once walked here in the freshness of youth,
and life, and beauty. The garden^ like their
young hearts, had gone to waste and ruin.
Beturning to the Hall, we now visited a cham-
ber built over the porch, or grand entrance ; it
was in a ruinous condition, the ceiling having
£sdlen in, and the floor given way. This, how-
ever, is a chamber rendered interesting by poeti-
cal associations. It is supposed to be the ora-
tory alluded to by Lord Byron in his « Dream,*
wherein he pictures his departure from Annesley,
after learning that Mary Chaworth was engs^ed
to be married.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned;
Within an antique Oratory stood
Hie Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone,
And pale and pacing to and firo : anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and tiaoed
Words which I could not guess of; then he leim*d
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere
With a convulsion — then arose again.
And with his teeth and quiyering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tean.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet; as he paused,
The lady of his love reentered there;
25
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i
884 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
She was serene and smiling then, and jet
She knew she was bj him beloved, — she knew,
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle gprasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came ;
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Returned, but not as bidding her adien,
For they did part with mutual smiles : — he passed
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way,
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more."
In one of his journals, Lord Byron describes
his feelings after tiius leaving the oratory. Arriv-
ing on the summit of a hill, which commanded the
last view of Annesley, he checked his horse, and
gazed hack with mingled pain and fondness upon
the groves which embowered the Hall, and thought
upon the lovely being that dwelt there, until his
feelings were quite dissolved in tenderness. The
conviction at length recurred that she never could
be his, when, rousing himself from his reverie,
he struck his spurs into his steed and dashed for-
ward, as if by rapid motion to leave reflection
behind him.
Yet, notwithstanding what he asserts in the
verses last quoted, he did pass the " hoary thresh-
old " of Annesley again. It was, however, after
the lapse of several years, during which he had
grown up to manhood, had passed through the
tit^eal of pleasures and tumultuous passions, and
had felt the influence of other charms. Miss
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY, 885
Ghawarth, too, had become a wife and a mother
and he dined at Annesley Hall at the invitation
of her hosband. He thus met the object of his
early idolatry in the very scene of his tender de-
votions, which, as he says, her smiles had once
made a heaven to him. The scene was but lit-
tle changed. He was in the very chamber where
he had so often listened entranced to the witchery
of her voice ; there were the same instruments
and music ; there lay her flower-garden beneath
the window, and the walks through which he had
wandered with her in the intoxication of youth-
ful love. Can we wonder that amidst the tender
recollections which every object around him was
calculated to awaken, the fond passion of his boy-
hood should rush back in full current to his heart ?
He was himself surprised at this sudden revulsion
of his feelings, but he had acquired self-posses-
sion and could command them. His firmness,
however, was doomed to imdergo a Airther trial.
While seated by the object of his secret devo-
tions, with all these recollections throbbing in
his bosom her in&nt daughter was brought into
the room. At sight of the child he started ; it
dispelled the last lingerings of his dream, and
he afterwards confessed, that to repress his emo-
tion at the moment, was the severest part of his
taskl *
The conflict of feelings that raged within his
bosom throughout this fond and tender, yet pain-
ful and embarrassing visit, are touchingly depicted
in lines which he wrote immediately afterwards^
and which, though not addressed to her by name.
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886 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
aM «Wdead J intended for the eye and die bent
of dM &ir lady, of Anneslej:
^ Well ! thou art happj, and I fed
That I should thus be happy too ;
7or still TCLj heart regards thj weal
Waimlj, as it was wont to do.
** Thy husband *s blest — and *t will impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass — Oh! how mj heart
Weald hate him, if he loved thee not!
•* When late I saw thy fevorite child
I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when the unconscious in&nt amiled,
I kissed it for its mother's sake.
^I kiss*d it, and repressed my sighs
VsB fiither in its fitce to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.
^ Mary, adieu ! I must away :
While thou art blest I *11 not repine;
Bat near thee I can never stay:
My heart would soon again be thine.
^I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
Had quench'd at length my boyish flaiat;
Hor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all, save love, the c
''Tetlwascalm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look;
]^at now to tremble were a crime -^
We met, and not a nerve was shooik.
"I taw thee gaze upon my fi^e,
Yet meet with no confusion there:
One only feeling couldst thou trace;
The sullen calmness of despair.
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY. S87
**l.way! away! my early dream
Remembrance never must awake:
Oh I where is Lethe^s fabled stream?
My foolish heart, be still, or breakr'*
The reyival of this earlj passion, aad tJie mel-
ancholy associations which it spread over those
scenes in the neighborhood of Newstead, which
wofdd necessarily be the places of his frequent
resort while in England, are alluded to by him
as a principal cause of his frst departure for the
Continent: —
** When man expelled Ax>m Eden's bowen
A moment lingered near the gate,
Each scene recalled the vanished hours,
And bade him cttrse his fUture &te.
» ** But wandering on through distant dimes,
He learnt to bear his load of grief;
Just gave a sigh to other times,
«• And found in busier scenes relied
** Thus Maiy must it be with me.
And I must view thy charms no more \
For, while I linger near to thee,
I sigh for all I knew before.*'
It was in the subsequent June that he set off
on his pilgrimage by sea and land, whidi was to
become the theme of his immortal poem. That
the image of Mary Chaworth, as he saw and
loved her in the days of his boyhood, followed
him to the very shore, is shown in the glowing
stanzas addressed to her on the eve of embarka«
tion: —
''"T is done -« and shivering in the gale
The bark imforis her anowy tafl;
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888 CRAYON MISCELLANT.
>^ And whistling o'er the bending mart,
Loud nngs on high the fresh'ning bbist;
And I must fix>m this land be gone,
Becaoae I cannot love but one.
'^ And I will CRM8 the whitening foam.
And I will seek a foreign home;
TOl I foiget a false fiiir fiice,
I ne*er shall find a resting places
Mj own daik thoughts I cannot shun, »
But ever love, and love but one.
** To think of eveiy earlj scene,
Of what we are, and what we 've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe —
But mine, alas ! has stood the blow ;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
^ And who that dear loved one may be
Is not for vulgar eyes to see,
And why that early love was crossed.
Thou know'st the best, I feel the mott;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
"I*ve tried another's fetters too.
With charms, perchance, as fair to view;
And I would fstin have loved as well.
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
** 'T would soothe to take one lingering view
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him who wanders o*er the deep ;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves and loves but one.'*
The painful interview at Anneslej Hall whioh
Teviyed with such intenseness his earlj passion.
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 889
remained stamped npon his memory with singa-
lar force, and seems to have sarvived all his
" wandering through distant dimes," to which he
trusted as an oblivious antidote. Upwards of
two years after that event, when, having made
his famous pilgrimage, he was once more an in-
mate of Newstead Abbey, his vicinity to Annes-
ley Hall brought the whole scene vividly before
him, and he thus recalls it in a poetic epistle to a
fiiend : —
" I Ve seen raj bride another^s bride, —
Have seen her seated by his side, —
Have seen the infant which she bore.
Wear the sweet snule the mother wore,
When flhe and I in youth have smiled
As fond and faultless as her child : —
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain.
Ask if I felt no secret pain.
^ And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Betum^d the freezing glance she gave, *
Yet felt the while ikcU woman^s slave; —
Have kiss'd, as if without design.
The babe which ought to have been mine.
And show'd, alas ! in each caress,
Time had not made me love the less."
^ It was about the time," says Moore in his Life
of Lord Byron, " when he was thus bitterly feel-
ing and expressing the blight which his heart had
suffered from a real object of affection, that his
poems on an imaginary one, * Thyrza,' were
-written." He was at the same time grieving
over the loss of several of his earliest and dearest
Mends, the companions of his joyous schoolboy
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390 aUTON MiaCELLANT,
honn. To recnr to ihe beautdM langaage of
Moore, who wrkea with the kmdred and kindling
9fmipJSbas» of a trae poet: " All these reoolleo-
. iioDS of the yoimg and the dead mingled them^
selves in his mind with the image of her who^
though Hving, was, for him, as mvxh lost as thej,
and diffused that general feeling of sadness and
fondness through his sonl, which found a vent in
these poems* • • . . It was the hl^iding of the
two affections in his memory and imagination, that
gave hirth to an ideal object combining the best
features of both, and drew fix>m him those saddest
and tenderest of love-poems, in which we find all
the depth and intensity of real feeling, touched
over with such a light as no reality ever wore."
An early, innocent, and unfortunate passion,
however fruitful of pain it may be to the man, is
a lasting advantage to the poet. It is a well of
sweet and bitter fancies ; of refined and gentle
sentipients ; of elevated and ennobling thoughts ;
shut up in the deep recesses of the heart, keep-
ing it green amidst the withering blights of the .
world, and, by its casual gushings and overflow-
ings, recalling at times all the freshness, and in-
nocence, and enthusiasm of youthftd days. Lord
Byroa was conscious of this efiect, and purposely
cherished and brooded over the remembrance of
hk» early passion, and of all the scenes of An-
nesley Hail connected with it It was this remem^
brance that attuned his mind to some of its moet
elevated and virtuous strains, and shed an inez«
pressible grace and pathos over his best'prodwy
tions.
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NEWSTEAD ASSET. 89t
Being thus pat apon the traoes of this little
love-story, I cannot refrain from threading them
OQty as they appear from time to time in yarious
passages g£ Lord Byron's works. Daring his
subseqaent rambles in the East, when time and
distance had sofltened away his << early romance "
almost into the remembrance of a pleasing and
tender dream, he received accounts of the object
of it, which represented her, still in her paternal
HaU, among her native bowers of Annesley, sor*
rounded by a blooming and beautiful famUy, yet
a prey to secret and withering melancholy : —
" In her home,
A thousand leagues from his, — her natire home»
She dwelt, begirt with growing infiuKy,
Daughters and sons of beauty, but — behold!
Upon her &ce there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its Uds were charged vnth unsked tears.**
For an instant the buried tenderness of early
youth, and the fluttering hopes which accompanied
it, seemed to have revived in his bosom, and the
idea to have flashed upon his mind that his image
might be connected with her secret woes; but
he rejected the thought almost as soon as formed.
" What could her grief be ? — she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish.
Or iU repress'd affection, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past."
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892 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
The cause of her grief was a matter of rural
eomment in the neighborhood of Newstead and
Annesley. It was disconnected from all idea of
Lord Byron, but attributed to the hai-sh and ca-
pricious conduct of one to whose kindness and
affection she had a sacred claim. The domestic
Borrows, which had long preyed in secret on her
heart, at length affected her intellect, and the
" bright morning star of Annesley " was eclipsed
forever.
'* The lady of his love, — oh ! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth ; she wais become
The queen of a fantastic realm: but her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy."
Notwithstanding lapse of time, change of place,
and a succession of splendid and spirit-stirring
scenes in various countries, the quiet and ^gentle
scene of his boyish love seems to have held a
magic sway over the recollections of Lord Byron,
and the image of Mary Chaworth to have unex-
pectedly obtruded itself upon his mind like some
supernatural visitation. Such was the fact on the
occasion of his marriage with Miss Milbanke ;
Annesley Hall and all its fond associations floated
like a vision before his thoughts, even when at the
altar, and on the point of pronouncing the nup*
tial vows. The circumstance is related by him
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NEWaTEAD ABBEY. 898
with a force and feeling that persuade ns of its
truth.
« A c]iange came o*er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was returned. — I saw him stand
Before an altar — with a gentle bride ;
Her &ce was fair, but was not that which made
The star-light of his boyhood ; — as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then —
As ia that hour — a moment o*er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, — and then it fiided as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,-
And all things reel'd around him: he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have beea —
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall.
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back.
And thrust themselves between him and the light:
What business had they there at such a time ? **
The history of Lord Byron's union is too well
known to need narration. The errors, and humil-
iations, and heart-burnings that followed upon it,
gave additional effect to the remembrance of his
early passion, and tormented him with the idea,
that^ had he been successful in his suit to the
lovely heiress of Annesley, they might both have
shared a happier destiny. In one of his manu-
scripts, written long after his marriage, having
accidentally mentioned Miss Chaworth as ^My
&L A. C.,'' — '^Alas!" exclaims he, with a sudden
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894 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
burst of feeHng, ^ why do I say 991^? Our unioD
would hftve healed feuds in which blood had been
shed by our fathers ; it would have joined lands
broad and rich ; it would have joined at least one
heart, and two persons not ill-matched in years —
and — and — and — what has been the result ? "
But enough of Annesley Hall and the poeti-
cal themes connected with it I felt as if I
could linger for hours about its ruined oratory,
and silent haU, and neglected garden, and spin
reveries and dream dreams, imtil all became an
ideal world around me. The day, however, was
&st declining, and the shadows of evening throw-
ing deeper shades of melancholy about the place.
Taking our leave of the worthy old hoosekeqier,
therefore, with a smaU compensation and many
thanks for her civilities, we mounted our horses and
pursued our way back to Newstead Abbey.
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THE LAKE.
* Betm llw manrioii laj a lodd lak*,
Broad m transparent, deep, and freshly fed
By a riTer, which its softened iray did take
In cnrrents through the calmer water spread
Around : the wild fowl nestled in the brake
And sedges, brooding in their Uqnid bed :
The woods sloped downward to its brink, and stood
With their green feces fixed upon the ilood.''
pnCH is Lord Byron's description of one
of a series of beautiful sheets of water,
formed in old times bj the monks by
damming up the course of a small river. Here
he used daily to enjoy his &vorite recreations of
swimming and sailing. The '< wicked old Lord/'
in his sdieme of rural devastationy had cut down
all the woods that once fringed the lake ; Lord
Byron, on coming of age, endeavored to restore
them, and a beautiful young wood, planted by
him, now sweeps up from the water's edge, and
clothes the hill-side opposite to the Abbey. To
this woody no(^ Gobnel Wildmsm has given the
appropriate title of « The Poef s Comer."
The lake has inherited its share of the tradi«
tions and &bles connected with everything in and
about the Abbey. It was a petty Mediterranean
sea on whidi the ^wicked old Lord" used to
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396 CRAYON MISCELLANY,
gratify his nautical tastes and liumors. He had
his mimic castles and fortresses along its shores,
and his mimic fleets upon its waters, and used to
get up mimic sea-fights. The remains of his
petty fortifications still awaken the curious in-
quiries of visitors. In one of his vagaries, he
caused a large vessel to be brought on wheels
from the sea-coast and launched in the lake. The
country people were surprised to see a ship thus
sailing over dry land. They called to mind a
saying of Mother Shipton, the &mous prophet
of the vulgar, that whenever a ship freighted
with ling should cross Sherwood Forest, New-
stead would pass out of the Byron family. The
country people, who detested the old Lord, were
anxious to verify the prophecy. Ling, in the di-
alect of Nottingham, is the name for heather;
with this plant they heaped the fated bark as it
passed, so that it arrived ftdl freighted at New-
stead.
The most important stories about the lake, how-
ever, relate to the treasures that are supposed to
lie buried in its bosom. These may have taken
their origin in a feet which actually occurred.
There was one time fished up fh)m the deep part
of the lake a great eagle of molten brass, with
expanded wings, standing on a pedestal or perch
of the same metal. It had doubtless served as a
stand or reading-desk, in the Abbey chapel, to
hold a folio Bible or missaL
The sacred relic was sent to a brazier to be
cleaned. As he was at work upon it, he discov-
ered that the pedestal was hollow and composed
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JiEXraTJSAD ABBEY. 897
of several pieces. Unscrewing these, he drew
forth a number of parchment deeds and grants
appertaining to the Abbey, and bearing the seals
of Edward m. and Henry "VUL, which had
thus been concealed, and ultimately sunk in the
lake by the friars, to substantiate their right and
title to these domains at some future day.
One of the parchment scrolls thus discovered
throws rather an awkward light upon the kind
of life led by the friars of Newstead. It is an
indulgence granted to them for a certain number
of months, in which plenary pardon is assured in
advance for all kinds of crimes, among which
several of the most gross and sensual are specifi-
cally mentioned, and the weaknesses of the fiesh
to which they were prone.
After inspecting these testimonials of monkish
life, in the regions of Sherwood Forest, we cease
to wonder at the virtuous indignation of Robin
Hood and his outlaw crew, at the sleek sensualists
of the cloister : —
** I never hurt the husbandman,
That use to till the ground,
Kor spill their blood that range the wood
To follow hawk and hound.
•* My chiefest spite to clergy is,
Who in these days bear sway ;
With friars and monks with their fine spunks,
I make my chiefest prey."
OiJ> Ballad of Robih Hood.
The brazen eagle has been transferred to the
parochial and coUegiate church of Southall, about
twenty miles from Newstead, where it may stil)
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89S CRAYON MISCELLANY.
be seen in the centre of the chaocel» suppcMrtii^
88 of jcMre, a ponderous Bible. As to the docu*
ments it ccmtalned, they are careftdly treasured
up bj Colonel Wildman amcnig his olher deeds
and papers, in an iron chest secured bj a patent
lock (^ nine bolts, almost equal to a magic spelL
The fishing up of this brasen relic, as I have
alread J hinted, has ^ven rise to the tales of treas-
ure lying at the bottom <if the lake, thrown in
there by the mcmks when they abandoned the
Abbey. The favorite story is, that there is a
great iron dbest there filled with gold and jewels,
and chalices and crucifixes ; nay, that it has been
seen, when the water of ihe lake was unusually
low. There were large iron rings at each end,
but aU attempts to move it were ineffectual,
either the gold it contained, was too ponderous,
or, what is more probable, it was secured by one
of those ma^c spells usually laid upon hidden
treasure. It remains, therefore, at the bott(Nn <^
the lake to this day, and, it is to be hoped, may
one day or other be discovered by the present
worthy proprietor.
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ROBIN HOOD AND SHERWOOD FOERST.
JHILE at Newstead Abbey I took gieat
delight in riding and rambling about
the neighborhood, studying out the traces
of merry Sherwood Forest, and visiting the
haunts of Bobin Hood. . The relics of the old for-
est are few and scattered, but as to the bold out-
law who once held a kind of freebooting sway
over it, there is scarce a hill or dale, a cliff or
cavern, a well or fountain, in this part of the
country, that is not connected with his memory.
The very names of some of the tenants on the
Newstead estate, such as Beardall and Hardstaff,
sound as if they may have been borne in old times
by some of the stalwart fellows of the outlaw
gang-
One of the earliest books that captivated my
&ncy when a child, was a collection of Bobin
Hood ballads, <' adorned with cuts," which I
bought of an old Scotch pedlar, at the cost of all
my holiday money. How I devoured its pages,
and gazed upon its uncouth wood-cuts 1 For a
time my mind was filled with picturings of
<* merry Sherwood," and the exploits and revel-
ling of the bold foresters ; and Bobin Hood,
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400 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
Little John, Friar Tack, and their doughty com-
peers, were my heroes of romance.
These early feelings were in some degree re-
vived when I found myself in the very heart of
the far-famed forest, and, as I said before, I took
a kind of schoolboy delight in hunting up all
traces of old Sherwood and its sylvan chivalry.
One of the first of my antiquarian rambles was
on horseback, in company with Colonel Wildman
and his lady, who undertook to guide me to some
of the mouldering monuments of the forest One
of these stands in front of the very gate of New-
Btead Park, and is known throughout the country
by the name of " The Pilgrim Oak." It is a
venerable tree, of great size, overshadowing a
wide area of the road. Under its shade the rus-
tics of the neighboriiood have been accustomed to
assemble on certain holidays, and celebrate their
rural festivals. This custom had been handed
down from father to son for several generations,
until the oak had acquired a kind of sacred char-
acter.
The **old Lord Byron,'* however, in whose
eyes nothing was sacred, when he laid his des-
olating hand on the groves and forests of New-
stead, doomed likewise this traditional tree to the
axe. Fortunately the good people of Nottingham
heard of the danger of their favorite oak, and
hastened to ransom it from destruction. They
afterwards made a present of it to the poet, whtti
he came to the estate, and the Pilgrim Oak ia
likely to continue a rural gathering-place for many
ooming generations.
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NMWaTEAB ABBET, tOt
From tliis magnifioent and time-honorod tree
we centinned on our sylvan research, in quest of
anotber oak, of more ancient date and less foor-
ishi^ condition. A ride of two or three miles,
the latter part across open wastes, once dothed
with forest, now bare and dieerless, brought as to
the tree in qaestion. It was the Oak of Ravens-
bead, one (ji the last survivors of old Sherwood,
and which had evidentlj once held a high head
in the forest ; it was now a mere wreck, crazed
by time, and blasted by lightning, and standing
alone on a naked waste, like a ruined column in
a desert.
** The scenes are desert now, and bare,
Where flourished once a forest flur,
When these waste glens with copse were lined,
And peopled with the hart and hind.
Ton lonely oak, would he could tell
The changes of his parent dell,
Since he, so gray and stubborn now,
Waved in each breeze a sapling bough.
Would he could tell how deep the shade
A thousand mingled branches made.
Here in my shade, methinks he *d say,
The mighty stag at noontide lay.
While doe, and roe, and red-deer good,
Have bounded by through gay gieen-wood.*'
At no great distance from Ravenshead Oak is
a small cave which goes by the name of Bobin
Hood's Stable. It is in the breast (^ a hill,
scooped out of brown freestone, with rude at-
tempts at oolunms and arches. Within are two
niches, which served, it is said, as stalls for the
bold outlaw's hwses. To this retreat he retired
when hotly pursued by the law, for tlie plaoe waa
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402 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
a secret even fix>m his band. The cave is over-
shadowed by an oak and alder, and is hardly dis-
ooyerable even at the present day ; but when the
country was oyerrun with forest, it must have
been completely concealed.
There was an agreeable wildness and loneliness
In a great part of our ride. Our devious road
wound down, at one time, among rocky dells by
wandering streams, and lonely pools, haunted by
shy water-fowl. We passed through a skirt of
woodland, of more modem planting, but consid-
ered a legitimate offspring of the ancient forest,
and commonly called Jock of Sherwood. In rid-
ing through these quietj solitary scenes, the par-
tridge and pheasant would now and then burst
upon the wing, and the hare scud away before us.
Another of these rambling rides in quest of
popular antiquities was to a chain of rocky clifis,
called the Kirkby Crags, which skirt the Robin
Hood hills. Here, leaving my horse at the foot
of the crags, I scaled their rugged sides, and
seated myself in a niche of the rocks, called
Robin Hood's chair. It commands a wide pros-
pect over the valley of Newstead, and here the
bold outlaw is said to have taken his seat, and
kept a look-out upon the roads below, watching
for merchants, and bishops, and other wealthy
travellers, upon whom to pounce down, like an
eagle from his eyrie.
Descending from the cMs and remounting my
horse, a ride of a mile or two further along a
narrow '< robber path," as it was called, which
wound up into the hills between perpendiculiU
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NEWaTEAD ABBEY. 408
rocks, led to an artificial cavern cut in the face
of a clifi^, with a door and window wrought
Uirough the living stone. This bears the name
of Friar Tuck's cell, or hermitage, where, accord-
ing to tradition, that jovial anchorite used to
make good cheer and boisterous revel with his
freebooting comrades.
Such were some of the vestiges of old Sher-
wood and its renowned '^ yeomandrie,'' which I
visited in the neighborhood of Newstead. The
worthy dergjrman who officiated as chaplain at
the Abbey, seeing my zeal in the cause, informed
me of a considerable tract of the ancient forest,
still in existence about ten miles distant There
were many fine old oaks in it, he said, that had
stood for centuries, but were now shattered and
^ stag-headed," that is to say, their upper branches
were bare, and blasted, imd straggling out like
the antlers of a deer. Their trunks, too, were
hoUow, and full of crows and jackdaws, who made
them their nestling-places. He occasionally rode
over to the forest in the long summer evenings,
and pleased himself with loitering in the twilight
about the green alleys and under the venerable
trees.
The description given by the chaplain made
me anxious to visit this remnant of old Sherwood,
and he kindly offered to be my guide and com-
panion. We accordingly sallied forth one morn-
ing, on horseback, on this sylvan expedition. Our
ride took us through a part of the country where
Ejng John had once held a hunting-seat, the
ruins of which are still to be seen. At that
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Mi CRAYON MIBCELLJLNT.
time the whole neighborhood was an open royal
fiirest, or Frank chase, as it was termed; for
King John was an enemy to parks and warrens,
and oth^ enclosures, by whidi game was fenced
in for the private benefit and recreation oi the
nobles and the clergy.
HerCi on the brow of a gentle hill, command-
ing an extensive proe^ect of what had once been
forest, stood another of those monumental trees,
which, to my mind, gave a peculiar interest to
this neighborhood. It was the Parliament Oak,
so called in memory of an assemblage of the
kind held by King John beneath its shade. The
lapse of upwards of six centuries had reduced
this once mighty tree to a mere crumbling frag-
ment, yet, like a gigantic torso in ancient statuary,
the grandeur of the mutilated trunk gave evi-
dence of what it had been in the days of its
glory. In contemplating its mouldering remains,
the &ncy busied itself in calling up the scene
that must have been presented beneath its shade,
when this sunny hill swarmed with the pageantry
of a warlike and hunting court; when silken
pavilions and warrior-tents decked its crest, and
royal standards, and baronial banners, and knightly
pennons rolled out to the breeze ; when (relates
and courtiers, and steel-clad chivalry thronged
round the person of the monardbi, while at a dis-
tance loitered the foresters in green, and all the
rural and hunting train that waited upon his syl-
van sports.
"A thonsand vassals mustered round
With borsc, and hawk, and horn, and hound}
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NEWBTEAD ABBEY. ¥A
And through the brake the rangers Btalk,
And falconers hold the ready hawk;
And foresters in green-wood trim
Lead in the leash the greyhound grim.**
Such was the phantasmagoria that presented
itself for a moment to my imagination, peopling
the silent place before me with empty shadows
of the past. The reverie however was transient ;
king, courtier, and steel-clad warrior, and forester
in green, with horn, and hawk, and hound,' all
faded again into oblivion, and I awoke to all that
remained of this once stirring scene of human
pomp and power — a mouldering oak, and a tra-
, dition.
** We are such stuff as dreams are made of I **
A ride of a few miles further brought us at
length among the venerable and classic shades of
Sherwood. Here I was delighted to find myself
in a genuine wild wood, of primitive and natural
growth, so rarely to be met with in this thickly
peopled and highly cultivated country. It re-
minded me of the aboriginal forests of my native
land. I rode through natural alleys and green-
wood groves, carpeted with grass and shaded by
lofty and beautiful birches. What most inter-
ested me, however, was to behold around me the
mighty trunks of veteran oaks, old monumental
trees, the patriarchs of Sherwood Forest. They
were shattered, hollow, and moss-grown, it is true,
and their " leafy honors " were nearly departed ;
but like mouldering .towers they were noble and
picturesque in their decay, and gave evidence,
even in their ruins, of their ancient grandeur.
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406 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
As I gazed about me upon these vestiges of
once "Merrie Sherwood,** the picturings of my
boyish fancy began to rise in my mind, and Robin
Hood and his men to stand before me.
''He clothed himself in scarlet then.
His men were all m green $
A finer show throughout the worid
In no place could be seen.
** Grood lord ! it was a gallant sight
To see them all in a row;
With evexy man a good broad-isword,
And eke a good yew bow.**
The horn of Robin Hood again seemed to re*
sound through the forest. I saw this sylvan
chivaLry, half huntsmen, half freebooters, troop-
ing across the distant glades, or feasting and
revelling beneath the trees ; I was going on to
embody in this way all the ballad scenes that
had delighted me when a boy, when the distant
sound of a wood-cutter's axe roused me from
my day-dream.
The boding apprehensions which it awakened
were too soon verified. I had not ridden much
further, when I came to an open space where the
work of destruction was going on. Around me
lay the prostrate trunks of venerable oaks, once
the towering and magnificent lords of the forest,
and a number of wood-cutters were heusking and
hewing at another gigantic tree, just tottering to
ito fall.
Alas ! for old Sherwood Forest : it had fallen
into the possession of a noble agriculturist ; a
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 407
>
modem utilitarian, who had no feeling for poetry
or forest scenery. In a little while and this
glorious woodland will be laid low; its green
glades be tamed into sheep-walks ; its legendary
bowers supplanted by turnip-fields, and ** Merrie
Sherwood" will exist but in ballad and tradi-
tion.
" O for the poetical superstitions," thought I,
** of the olden time ! that shed a sanctity over
every grove ; that gave to each tree its tutelar
genius or nymph, and threatened disaster to all
who should molest the hamadryads in their leafy
abodes. Alas I for the sordid propensities of
modern days, when everything is coined into gold,
and this once holiday planet of ours is turned
into a mere * working-day world.' "
My cobweb fancies put to flight, and my feel-
ings out of tune, I left the forest in a far different
mood from that in which I had entered it, and
rode silently along until, on reaching the summit
of a gentle eminence, the chime of evening bells
came on the breeze across the heath from a dis-
tant village.
I paused to listen.
" They are merely the evening bells of Mans-
field," said my companion.
"Of Mansfield!" Here was another of the
legendary names of this storied neighborhood,
that called up early and pleasant associations.
The famous old ballad of the King and the Miller
of Mansfield came at pnce to mind, and the chime
of the bells put me again in good humor.
A little further on, and we were again on the
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408 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
r
tnxxB of Bobin Hood. Here was FoDBtain
Dale, where he had his enoounter with that stal-
wart shaveUng Friar Tuck, who was a kind of
saint militant, altetnatelj wearing the casque and.
the cowl : —
'* The cortal fiyar kept Fountain dale
Seven long years and more,
There was neither lord, knight or earl
Could make him yield before."
The moat is still shown which is said to have
surrounded the strong - hold of this jovial and
fighting fiiar ; and the place where he and Robin
Hood had their sturdy trial of strength and
prowess, in the memorable conflict which lasted
** From ten o'clock that very day
Until four in the afternoon,"
and ended in the treaty of fellowship. As to
the hardy feats, both of sword and trench^, per-
formed by this "curtal fiyar," behold are they
not recorded at length in the ancient baUads^ and
in tfie magic pages of " Ivanhoe " ?
The evening was fast coming on, and the twi-
light thickening, as we rode through these haunts
&mous in outlaw story. A melancholy seemed
to gather over the landscape as we proceeded, for
our course lay by shadowy woods, and across
naked heaths, and along lonely roads, marked by
some of those sinbter names by which the coun-
try people in England are apt to make dreary
places still more dreary. The horrors of
^ Thieves' Wood,*' and the « Murderers' Stone,"
«nd ^the Hag Nook," had all to be encountered
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NEWBTEAD ABBEY.
409
in the gathcriDg gloom of evening, and threatened
to beset our path with more than mortal periL
Happily, however, we passed these ominous places
unharmed, and arrived in safety at the portal of
Newstead Abbey, highly satisfied with our green-
wood foray.
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THE ROOK CELL.
|N the coarse of my sojonm at the Ab-
bey I changed my quarters fit>m the
magnificent old state apartment hamited
by Sir John Byron the Little, to another in a
remote comer of the ancient edifice, immedi-
ately adjoining the rained chapel. It possessed
still more interest in my eyes, from having been
the sleeping apartment of Lord Byron daring
his residence at the Abbey. The ^mitore re-
mained the same. Here was the bed in which
he slept, and which he had brought with him
from. college; its gilded posts, surmounted by
coronets, giving evidence of his aristocratical feel-
ings. Here was likewise his college sofa; and
about the walls were the portraits of his favorite
butler, old Joe Murray, of his fency acquaintance,
Jackson the pugilist, together with pictures of
Harrow School and the College at Cambridge, at
which he was educated.
The bedchamber goes by tbe name of the Book
Cell, from its vicinity to the Rookery, which, since
time immemorial, has maintained possession of a
solemn grove adjacent to the chapel. Thb ven-
erable community afforded me much food for spec-
ulation during my residence in this apartment
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NEWaTEAD ABBEY. 411
In the morning I used to hear them gradually
waking and seeming to caU each other up. After
a time, the whole fraternity would be in a flutter ;
some balancing and swinging on the tree-tops,
others perched on the pinnacle of the Abbey
church, or wheeling and hovering about in the
air, and the ruined walls would reverberate with
their incessant cawings. In this way they would
linger about the rookery and its vicinity for the
early part of the morning, when, having appar-
ently mustered all their forces, called over the roll,
and determined upon their line of march, they one
and all would sail off in a long straggling flight
to maraud the distant fields. They would forage
the country for miles, and remain absent all day,
excepting now and then a scout would come home,
as if to see that all was welL Towards night the
whole host might be seen, like a dark cloud in the
distance, winging their way homeward. They
came, as it were, with whoop and halloo, wheel-
ing high in the air above the Abbey, making va-
rious evolutions before they alighted, and then
keeping up an incessant cawing in the tree-tops,
until they gradually fell asleep.
It is remarked at the Abbey, that the rooks,
though they sally forth on forays throughout the
week, yet keep about the venerable edifice on
Sundays, as if they had inherited a reverence for
the day, from their ancient confreres, the monks.
Indeed, a believer in the metempsychosis might
easily imagine these Gk>thic-looking birds to be
the embodied souls of the ancient friars still
hovering about their sanctified abode.
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412 CRA70H MI8CMLANY.
I dislike to distorb any point of popular and
poetic &ith, and was loath, therefore, to question
the authenticity of this mysterious reverence fof
the Sabbath, on the part of the Newstead rooks ;
but certainly in the course of my sojourn in the
Rook Cell I detected them in a flagrant outbreak
and foray on a bright Sunday morning.
Beside the occasional clamor of the rookery, this
remote apartment was often greeted with sounds
of a different kind, from the neighboring ruins.
The great lancet window in front of the chapel
adjoins the very wall of the chamber ; and the
mysterious sounds from it at night have been
well described by Lord Byron :
" Now loud, now frantic,
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, aad oft sings
The owl his anthem, when the silent quire
Lie with their hallelujahs quenched like fire.
« But on the noontide of the moon, and when
The wind is winged from one point of heaven.
There moans a strange unearthly sound, whidi theo
Is musical — a dying accent driven
Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again*
Some deem it but the distant echo given
Back to the night-wind by the waterfall,
And harmonized by the old choral wall.
*< Others, that some original shape or form.
Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power
To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm.
Sad, but serene, it sweeps o*er tree or tower;
The cause 1 know not, nor can solve; but such
The fact: — I Ve heard it, — once perhaps too much.*'
Never was a traveller in quest of the romanft)
in greater luck. I had, in sooth, got lodged m
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HEWBTEAD ABBEY. 413
another haunted apartment of the Abbey ; for
in this chamber Lord Byron declared he had
more than once been harassed at midnight by a
mysterious visitor. A black shapeless form would
sit cowering upon his bed, and after gazing at
him for a time with glaring eyes, would roll off
and disappear. The same uncouth apparition is
said to have disturbed the slumbers of a newly
married couple that once passed their honey-moon
in this apartment.
I would observe that the access to the Book
Cell is by a spiral stone staircase leading up into
it as into a turret, from the long shadowy corri-
dor over the cloisters, one of the midnight walks
of the goblin friar. Indeed, to the fancies en-
gendered in his brain in this remote and lonely
apartment, incorporated with the floating super-
stitions of the Abbey, we are no doubt indebted
for the spectral scene in ^ Don Juan."
'* Then as the night was clear, though cold, he threw
His chamber-door wide open — and went forth
Into a gallery, of sombre hue,
Long fumish'd with old pictures of great worth,
Of knights and dames, heroic and chaste too,
As doubtless should be people of high birth.
** Ko sound except the echo of his sigh
Or step ran sadly through that antique house,
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh,
A Bupematinral agent — or a mouse.
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass
Most people, as it plays along the arras.
" It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, arrayed
In oowl, and beads, and dusky garb, appeared
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414 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in ahadd;
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard;
His garments only a slight murmur made ;
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird,
But slowly ; and as he passed Juan by
Glared, without pausing, on him a bnght eye.
" Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint
Of such a spirit in these halls of old.
But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't
Beyond the rumor which such spots unfold,
Coined from surviving superstition's mmt.
Which passes ghosts in currency like gold,
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper.
And did he see this? or was it a vapor?
•* Once, twice, thrice passed, repass'd — the thing of air,
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t'other place;
And Juan gazed upon it with a stare,
Tet could not speak or move, but, on its base
As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hah:
Twine like a knot of snakes around his fkce;
He tax*d his tongue for words, which were not granted .
To ask the reverend person what he wanted.
" The third time, after a still longer pause.
The shadow pass'd away — but where ? the hall
Was long, and thus far there was no great cause
To think his vanishing unnatural :
Doors there were many, through which, by the laws
Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall,
Might come or go ; but Juan could not state
Through which the spectre seem*d to evaporate.
'He stood, — how long he knew not, but it seem'd
An age, — expectant, powerless, with his eyes
Strained on the spot where first the figure gleam*d,
Then by degrees recall'd his eneigies.
And would have pass'd the whole ofiT as a dream.
But could not wake ; he was, he did surmise,
Waking already, and returned at length
Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.*'
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NEWBTEAD ABBEY, 415
As I have already observed, it is difficult to
determine whether Ix)rd Byron was really sub-
ject to the superstitious &ncies which have been
imputed to him, or whether he merely amused
himself by giving currency to them among. his
domestics and dependants. He certainly never
scrupled to express a belief in supernatural visi-
tations, both verbally and in his correspondence.
K such were his foible, the Book Cell was an
admirable place to engender these delusions. As
I have lain awake at night, I have heard all
kinds of mysterious and sighing sounds from the
neighboring ruin. Distant footsteps, too, and the
closing of doors in remote parts of the Abbey,
would send hollow reverberations and echoes
along the corridor and up the spiral staircase*
Once, in &ct, I was roused hj a strange sound
at the very door of my chamber. I threw it
open, and a form << black and shapeless with glar-
ing eyes ^ stood before me. It proved, however,
neither ghost nor goblin, but my friend Boat-
swain, the great Newfoundland dog, who had
conceived a companionable liking fi>r me, and oc-
casionally sought me in my apartment. To the
hauntings of even such a visitant as honest Boat-
swain may we attribute some of the marveUous
stcnnes about the Goblin Friar.
^
27
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THE LITTLE WHITE LADY.
|N the course of a moming^s ride with
Colonel Wildman, about the Abbej lands,
we found ourselves in one of the pret*
tiest little wild-woods ima^able. The road to
it had led us among rocky ravines overhung with
thickets, and now wound through birchen dingles
and among beautiful groves and clumps of ehns
and beeches. A limpid rill of sparkling water,
winding and doubling in perplexed mazes, crossed
our path repeatedly, so as to give the wood the
appearance of being watered by numerous rivu-
lets. The solitary and romantic look of this
piece of woodland, and the frequent recurrence
of its mazy stream, put him in mind, Colonel
Wildman said, of the little German fairy tale of
Undine, in which is recorded the adventures of a
knight who had married a water-nymph. As he
rode with his bride through her native woods,
every stream claimed her as a relative ; one was
a brother, another an unde, another a cousin.
We rode on, amusing ourselves with applying
tins &nciM tale to the charming scenery around
us, until we came to a lowly gray-stone farm-
house, of ancient date, situated in a solitary glen.
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NEWBTEAD ABBEY. 417
on the margin of the hrodkj and overshadowed
by venerable trees. It went by the name, as I
was told, of the Weir Mill fiad*m-house. With
this rustic mansion was connected a little tale of
real life, some circamstances of which were re-
lated to me on the spot, and others I collected in
the course of my sojourn at the Abbey.
Not long after Cbbnel Wildman had purchased
the estate of Newstead, he made it a visit for the
purpose of planning repairs and alterations. As
he was rambling one evening, about dusk, in
company with his architect, through this little
piece of woodland, he was struck with its pecu-
liar characteristics, and then, for the first time,
compared it to the haunted wood of Undine.
While he was making the remark, a small female
figure, in white, flitted by without speaking a
word, or indeed appearing to notice them. Her
step was scarcely heard as she passed, and her
form was indistinct in the twilight.
"What a figure for a fairy or sprite!" ex-
claimed Colonel Wildman. " How much a poet
or a romance writer would make of such an ap-
parition, at such a time and in such a place I "
He began to congratulate himself upon having
some elfin inhabitant for his haunted wood, when,
on proceeding a few paces, he found a white frill
lying in the path, which had evidently fiedlen
from the figure that had just passed.
« Well," said he, « after aU, this is neither
sprite nor fairy, but a being of flesh and bk)od
and muslin."
Continuing on, he came to where the road
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418 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
passed by an old mill in front of the A.bbey.
The people of the mill were at the door. He
paused and inquired whether any visitor had been
at the Abbey, but was answered in the negative.
" Has nobody passed by here ? "
" No one, sir.**
"That's strange! Surely I met a female in
white, who must have passed along this path/'
" Oh, sir, you mean the Little White Lady ; —
oh, yes, she passed by here not long since."
" The Little White Lady I And pray who is
the Little White Lady ? "
" Why, sir, that nobody knows ; she lives in
the Weir Mill farm-house, down in the skirts of
the wood. She comes to the Abbey every morn-
ing, keeps about it all day, and goes away at
night She speaks to nobody, and we are rather
shy of her, for we don't know what to make of
her."
Colonel Wildman now concluded that it was
some artist or amateur employed in making
sketches of the Abbey, and thought no more
about ^e matter. He went to London, and was
absent for some time. In the interim, his sister,
who was newly married, came with her husband
to pass the honey-moon at the Abbey. The
Little White Lady still resided in the Weir Mill
farm-house, on the border of the haunted wood,
and continued her visits daily to the Abbey.
Her dress was always the same : a white gown
with a little black spencer or bodice, and a white
hat with a short veil that screened the upper part
of her countenance. Her habits were shy, lonely,
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NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 419
and silent ; she spoke to no one^ and sought no
companionship, excepting with the Newfoundland
dog, that had belonged to Lord Byron. His
friendship she secured bj caressing him and oc-
casionally bringing him food, and he became the
companion of her solitary walks. She avoided
all strangers, and wandered about the retired
parts of the garden ; sometimes sitting for hours
by the tree on which Lord Byron had carved his
name, or at the foot of the monument which he
had erected among the ruins of the chapel.
Sometimes ^she read, sometimes she wrote with a
pencil on a small slate which she carried with
her, but much of her time was passed in a kind
of reverie.
The people about the place gradually became
accustomed to her, and suffered her to wander
about unmolested ; their distrust of her subsided
on discovering that most of her peculiar and
lonely habits arose from the misfortune of being
deaf and dumb.. Still she was regarded with
some degree of shyness, for it was the common
opinion that she was not exactly in her right
mind.
Colonel Wildman's sister was informed of aU
these chrcumstances by the servants of the Abbey,
among whom the Little White Lady was a theme
of frequent discussion. The Abbey and its mo-
nastic environs being haunted ground, it was nat-
ural that a mysterious visitant of the kind, and
one supposed to be under the influence of mental
hallucination, should inspire awe in a person un-
accustomed to the place. As Colonel Wildman'a
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420 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
Bister ms one day waUdng along a broad terrace
of the garden, she suddenly beheld the Little
White Lady coming towards her, and, in the sur-
prise and agitation of the moment, turned and
ran into the house.
. Day after day now elapsed, and nothing more
was seen of tlds singular personage. Colonel
Wildman at length arrived at the Abbey, and
his sister mentioned to him her rencounter and
fright in the garden. It brought to mind his own
adventure with the Little White Lady in the
wood of Undine, and he was surprised to find
that she still continued her mysterious wanderings
about the Abbey. The mystery was soon ex-
plained. Immediately after his arrival he re-
ceived a letter written in the most minute and
delicate female hand, and in elegant and even
eloquent language. It was firom the Little White
Lady. She had noticed and been shocked by
the abrupt retreat of Colonel Wildman's sister
on seeing her in the garden-walk, and expressed
her unhappiness at being an object of alarm to
any of his &imily. She explained the motives
of her frequent and long visits to the Abbey,
which proved to be a singularly enthusiastic
idolatry of the genius of Lord Byron, and a sol-
itary and passionate delight in haunting the
scenes he had once inhabited. She hinted at the
infirmities which cut her off from all social
communion with her fellow-beings, and at her
situation in life as desolate and bereaved; and
concluded by hoping that he would not deprive
her of her only comfort, the permissic»i of visiting
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NEWaTEAD ABBEY. 421
the Abbey occasionally, and lingering aboat the
walks and gardens.
Colonel Wildman now made further inquiries
concerning her, and found that she was a great
favorite with the people of the farm-house where
she boarded, from the gentleness, quietude, and
innocence of her manners. When at home, she
passed the greater part of her time in a small
sitting-room, reading and writing.
Colonel Wildman immediately called on her at
the* farm-house. She received him with some
.agitation and embarrassment, but his frankness
and urbanity soon put her at her ease. She was
past the bloom of youth, a pale, nervous little
being, and apparency deficient in most of her
physical organs, for in addition to being deaf and
dumb, she saw but imperfectly. They carried on
a communication by means of a small slate, which
she drew out of her reticule, and on which they
wrote their questions and replies. In writing
or reading she always approached her eyes dose
to the written characters.
This defective organization was accompanied
by a morbid sensibility almost amounting to dis-
ease. She had not been bom deaf and dumb,
but had lost her hearing in a fit of sickness, and
with it the power of distinct articulation. Her
life had evidently been checkered and unhappy ;
she was apparently without &mily or friend, a
lonely, desoktte being, cut off from society by her
infirmities.
'<I am always amongst strangers," said she,
*as much so in my native country as I could be
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422 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
in the remotest parts of the world. By all I am
considered as a stranger and an alien; no one
will acknowledge any connection with me. I
seem not to belong to the hnman species."
Such were the circumstances that Colonel
Wildman was able to draw forth in the course
of his conversation, and thej strongly interested
him in &yor of this poor enthusiast He was
too devout an admirer of Lord Byron himself
not to sympathize in this extraordinary zeal of
one of his votaries, and he entreated her to* re-
new her visits to the Abbey, assuring her that the.
edifice and its grounds should always be open to
her.
The Little White Lady now resumed her daily
walks in the Monks' Garden, and her occasional
seat at the foot of the monument ; she was shy
and dif^dent, however, and evidently fearftil of
intruding. If any persons were walking in the
garden, she would avoid them, and seek the most
remote parts ; and was seen like a sprite, only
by gleams and glimpses, as she glided among the
groves and thickets. Many of her feelings and
fancies, during these lonely rambles, were em-
bodied in verse, noted down on her tablet, and
transferred to paper in the evening on her return
to the farm-house. Some of these verses now
lie before me, written with considerable harmony
of versification, but chiefiy curious as being illus*
trative of that singular and enthusiastic idolatry
with which she almost worshipped the genius of
Byron, or rather the romantic image of him
formed by her imagination«
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NEWBTEAD ABBEY. 42S
Two or three extracts may not be unaooept-
able. The following are from a long rhapsody
addressed to Lord Byron : —
** B7 what dread charm thou rolest the mind
It is not given for us to know;
We glow with feelings undefined,
Nor can explain from whence they flow.
" Kot that fond love which passion breathes
An4 youthful hearts inflame;
The soul a nobler homage gives,
And bows to thy great name.
** Oft have we own*d the muses' slull,
And proved the power of song.
But sweetest notes ne'er woke the thrill
That solely to thy verse belong.
" This — but fer more, for thee we prove,
Something that bears a holier name
Than the pure dream of early love.
Or friendship's nobler flame.
" Something divine — Oh ! what it is
Thy muse alone can tell.
So sweet, but so profound the bliss
We dread to break the spell."
This singular and romantic infatuation, for
such it might truly be called, was entirely spiritual
and ideal, for, as she herself declares in another
of her rhapsodies, she had never beheld Lord
Byron ; he was, to her, a mere phantom of the
brain.
** I ne'er have drunk thy glance, — thy fxtrm,
My earthly eye has never seen.
Though oft when &ncy's visions warm.
It greets mo in some bliasM dreams
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4S4 CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
Greets me, as greets the sainted seer
Some radiant visitant from high.
When heaven's own strains break on his ear,
And wrap his soul in ecstasy.'*
Her poetical wanderings and musings were not
confined to the Abbey grounds^ but extended to
all parts of the neighborhood connected with the
memory of Lord Byron, and among the rest to
the groves and gardens of Annesley Hall, the
seat of his early passion for Miss Chaworth. One
of her poetical effusions mentions her having seen
from Howet's Hill in Annesley Park, a " sylpb-
like form," in a car drawn by milk-white horses,
passing by the foot of the hill, who proved to be
the " favorite child " seen by Lord Byron in his
memorable interview with Miss Chaworth after
her marriage. That &vorite child was now a
blooming girl approaching to womanhood, and
seems to have understood something of the char-
acter and stoiy of this singular visitant, and to
have treated her with gentle sympathy. The
Little White Lady expresses in touching terms,
in a note to her verses, her sense of this gentle
courtesy. " The benevolent condescension," says
she, ^ of that amiable and interesting young lady,
to the unfortunate writer of these simple lines,
will remain engraved upon a grateful memory,
till the vital spark that now animates a heart that
too sensibly feels and too seldom experiences such
kindness, is forever extinct"
Li the mean time. Colonel Wildman, in coca-
sional interviews, had obtained further particulars
of the story of the stranger, and found that pov-
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 42S
erty was added to the other evils of her forlorn
and isolated state. Her name was Sophia Hyatt.
She was the daughter of a country bookseller, but
both her parents had died several years before.
At their death, her sole dependence was upon her
brother, who allowed her a small annuity on her
share of the property left by their father, and
which remained in his hands. Her brother, who
was a captain of a merchant vessel, removed with
his family to America, leaving her almost alone in
the world, for she had no other relative in Eng-
land but a cousin, of whom she knew almost noth-
ing. She received her annuity regularly for a
time, but unfortunately her brother died in the
West Indies, leaving his affairs in confusion, and
his estate overhung by several commercial claims,
which threatened to swallow up the whole. Un-
der these disastrous circumstances, her annuity
suddenly ceased ; she had in vain tried to obtain
a renewal of it from the widow, or even an ac-
count of the state of her brother's affairs. Her
letters for three years past had remained unan-
swered, and she would have been exposed to the
horrors of the most abject want, but for a pit-
tance quarterly doled out to her by her cousin in
England.
Colonel TVildman entered with characteristic
benevolence into the story of her troubles. E(e
saw that she was a helpless, unprotected being,
unable, from her infirmities and her ignorance of
the world, to prosecute her just claims. He ob-
tained from her the address of her relations in
America, and of the commercial connection of
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426 CBATON MISCELLANY.
\
ber broker ; promised, through the medium of
his own agents in Liverpool, to institute an in-
quiry into the situation of her. brother's affairs,
and to forward any letters she might write, so as
to insure their reaching their place of destina-
tion.
Inspired with some faint hopes, the Little
White Lady continued her wanderings about the
Abbey and its neighborhood. The delicacy and
timidity of her deportment increased the interest
already felt for her by Mrs. Wildman. That
lady, with her wonted kindness, sought to make
acquaintancjB with her, and inspire her with con
fidence. She invited her into the Abbey ; treated
her with the most delicate attention, and, seeing
that she had a great turn for reading, offered her
the loan of any books in her possession. She
borrowed a few, particularly the works of Sir
Walter Scott, but soon returned than ; the writ-
ings of Lord Byron seemed to form the only
study in which she delighted, and when not oc-
cupied in reading those, her time was passed in
passionate meditations on his genius. Her enthu-
siasm spread an ideal world around her, in which
she moved and existed as in a dream, forgetful
at times of the real miseries which beset her in
her mortal state.
One of her rhapsodies is, however, of a very
melancholy cast; anticipating her own death,
which her fragile franle and growing infirmities
rendered but too probable. It is headed by the
following paragraph : —
'< Written beneath the tree on Growholt Hill,
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NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 427
where it is 1117 wish to be interred (if I should
die in Newstead)."
I subjoin a few of ihQ stanzas : they are ad«
dressed to Lord Byron.
^ Thon, while thou stand*8t- beneath this tree,
While by thy foot this earth is |iree6*d,
Think, here the wanderer*s ashes be —
And wilt thou say, sweet be thy resti
** 'T would add even to a seraph's bliss,
Whose sacred chaiige thou then may be,
To guide — to guard —yes, Byron ! yea,
That glory is reserved for me.
**!£ woes below may plead above
A frail heart's errors, mine forgiven.
To that * high world ' I soar, where * love
Surviving ' forms the bliss of Heaven.
** O wher^oe'er, in realms above,
Assigned my spirit's new abode,
*T will watch thee with a seraph's love,
"fill thou too soar'st to meet thy God.
^And here, beneath this lonely tree —
Beneath the earth thy feet have press'd.
My dust shall sleep — once dear to thee
These scenes— here may the wanderer rest I '*
In the midst of her reveries and rhapsodies,
tidings reached Newstead of the untimely death
of Lord Byron. How they were received by this
humble but passionate devotee I could not ascer-
tain ; her life was too obscure and lonely to fur-
nish much personal anecdote, but among her poet*
jcal effusions are several written in a broken and
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428 CRATON MISCELLANY.
irregular manner, and evidently under great agi-
tation. .
The foUomng sonnet is the most coherent and
most descriptive of her peculiar state of mind : ^^
** Well, thou art gone — but what wert thou to me ?
I never saw thee — ncrer heard thy voice,
Yet my soul seemed to claim affiance with thee.
The Roman bard has sung of fields Elyvlan,
Where the soul sojourns ere she visits earth;
Sure it was there my spirit knew thee, Byron !
Thine image hannteth me like a past vision;
It hath enshrined itself in my hearths core;
'T is my souPs soul — it fills the whole creation.
For I do live but in that world ideal
Which the muse peopleth with her bright fimcies,
And of that world thou art a monarch real,
Nor ever earthly sceptre ruled a kingdom.
With sway so potent as thy lyre, the mind*8 dominion.*'
Taking all the circumstances here adduced into
consideration, it is evident that this strong excite-
ment and 'exclusive occupation of Itie mind upon
one subject, operating upon a system in a high
state of morbid irritability, was in danger of pro-
ducing that species of mental derangement called
monomania. The poor little being was aware,
herself of the dangers of her case, and alluded
to it in the following passage of a letter to Col-
onel Wildman, which presents one of the most
lamentable pictures of anticipated evil ever con-
jured up by the human mind.
" I have long," writes she, " too sensibly felt
the decay of my mental faculties, which I oon*
aider as the certain indication of that dreaded
calamity which I anticipate with such terror. A
Btiange idea has long haunted my mind, that
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NKWaTEAD ABBEY. 429
Swiil's dreadful £tte will be mine. It is not
ordinary insanity I so much apprehend, but some-
thing worse — absolute idiotism !
'' O sir ! think what I must suffer from such
an idea, without an earthly friend to look up to
for protection in such a wretched state — exposed
to the indecent insults which such spectacles al-
ways excite. But I dare not dwell upon the
thought ; it would facilitate the event I so much
dread and contemplate with horror. Yet I can-
not help thinking from people's behavior to me
at times, and from after-reflections upon my con-
duct, that symptoms of the disease are already
apparent."
Five months passed away, but the letters writ-
ten by her, and forwarded by Colonel Wildman
to America, relative to her brother's affairs, re-
mained unanswered; the inquiries instituted by
the Colonel had as yet proved equally fruitless.
A deeper gloom and despondency now seemed to
gather upon her mind. She began to talk of
leaving Newstead, and repairing to London, in
the vague hope of obtaining relief or redress by
instituting some legal process to ascertain and en
force the will of her deceased brother. Weeks
elapsed, however, before she could summon up
sufficient resolution to tear herself away &om the
scene of poetical fascination. The following sim-
ple stanzas, selected from a number written about
the time, express in humble rhymes the melan-
choly that preyed upon her spirits : —
" Farewell to thee, Newstead, thy tune-riven towen
Shall meet the fond gaze of the pilgrim no more;
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430 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
No more may she roam through thy walks and thy bowers.
Nor muse m thy cloisters at eve^s pensive hour.
^ Oh how shall I leave you, ye hills and ye dales,
When lost in sad musing, though sad not unblest
A lone pilgrim I stray — Ah ! in these lonely vales,
I hoped, vainly hoped, that the pilgrim might rest
^ Tet rest is far distant — in the dark vale of death
Alone shall I find it, an outcast forlorn —
But hence vain complaints, though by fortune bereft
Of all that could solace in life's early mom.
*< Is not man from his birth doomed a pilgrim to roam
O'er the world's dreary wilds, whence by fortune's nid«
gust.
In his path, if some flowret of joy chanced to bloom,
It 18 torn and its foliage Uud low in the dust'*
At length she fixed upon a day for her depart-
ure. On the day previous, she paid a &rewell
visit to the Abbey ; wandering over every part of
the grounds and garden ; pausing and lingering at
every place particularly associated with the recol-
lection of Lord Byron ; and passing a long time
seated at the foot of the monument, which she
used to call ''her altar." Seeking Mrs. Wild-
man, she placed in her hands a sealed packet,
with an earnest request that she would not open
it untU after her departure from the neighbor-
hood. This done, she took an affectionate leave
of her, and with many bitter tears bade &rewell
to the Abbey.
On retiring to her room that evenings Mrs.
TVildman could not refrain from inspecting the
legacy of this singular being. On opening the
packet, she found a number of fugitive poems,
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NEWaTEAD ABBEY, 431
written in a most delicate and minute hand, and
evidently the fruits of her reveries and medita-
tions during her lonely rambles ; from these the
foregoing extracts have been made. These were
accompanied by a voluminous letter, written with
the pathos and eloquence of genuine feeling, and
depicting her peculiar situation and singular state
of mind in dark but painful colors.
"The last time," says she, "that I had the
pleasure of seeing you, in the garden, you asked
me why I leave Newstead; when I told you
my circumstances obliged me, the expression of
concern which I fancied I observed in your look
and manner would have encouraged me to have
been explicit at the time, but from my inability
of expressing myself verbally."
She then goes on to detail precisely her pecu-
niary circumstances, by which it appears that her
whole dependence for subsistence was on an al-
lowance of thirteen pounds a year from her
cousin, who bestowed it through a feeling of pride,
lest his relative should come upon the parish.
During two years this pittance had been aug-
mented from other sources, to twenty-three pounds,
but the last year it had shrunk within its original
bounds, and was yielded so grudgingly, that she
could not feel sure of its continuance from one
quarter to another. More than once it had been
withheld on sh'ght pretences, and she was in con-
stant dread lest it should be entirely withdrawn.
" It is with extreme reluctance," observes she,
** that I have so fer exposed my unfortunate situ-
ation ; but I thought you expected to know some*
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482 CRAYON MiaCELLAHY.
thing more of it, and I feared that Colcmel Wild*
man, deceived hj appearances, might think that
I am in no immediate want, and that the delay
of a few weeks, or months, respecting the inquiry,
can be of no material consequence. It is abso
lutely necessary to the success of the business
that Colonel Wildman should know the exact
state of my circumstances without reserve, that
he may be enabled to make a correct representa-
tion of them to any gentleman whom he intends
to interest, who, I presume, if they are- not of
America themselves, have some connections there,
through whom my Mends may be convinced of
the reality of my distress, if they pretend to
doubt it, as I suppose they do : but to be more
explicit is impossible ; it would be too humiliating
to particularize the circumstances of the embar-
rassment in which I am unhappily involved — my
utter destitution. To disclose all, might, too, be
liable to an inference which I hope I am not so
void of delicacy, of natural pride, as to endure
the thought of. Pardon me, madam, for thus
giving trouble where I have no right to do —
compelled to throw myself upon Ck)lonel Wild-
man's humanity, to entreat his earnest exertions
in my behalf, for it is now my only resource.
Tet do not too much despise me for thus submit*
ting to imperious necessity, — it is not love of
life, believe me it is not, nor anxiety for its pres-
ervation. I cannot say, ^ There are things that
make the world dear to me,' — for in the world
there is not an object to make me wish to linger
here another hour, could I find that rest and
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NEWBTEAD ABBEY, 488
peace in the grave which I have never found (m
earth, and I fear will be denied me there."
Another part of her letter develops more
. completely the dark despondency hinted at in the
eondusion of the foregoing extract — and pre-
sents a lamentable instance of a mind diseased,
which sought in vain, amidst sorrow and calamity,
the sweet consolations of religious fiuth*
"That my existence has hitherto been pro-
longed," says she, ''often beyond what I have
thought to have been its destined period, is as-
tonishing to myself. Often when my situation
has been as desperate, as hopeless, or more so, if
possible, than it is at present, some unexpected
interposition of Providence has rescued me from
a &te that has appeared inevitable. I do not
particularly allude to recent circumstances or
latter years, for from my earlier years I have
been the child of Providence — then why should
I distrust its care now ? I do not cftstrust it —
neither do I trust it I feel perfectly unanxious,
unconcerned, and indifferent as to the future ;
but this is not trust in Providence — not that
trust which alone claims its protection. I know
this is a blamable indifference — it is more — for
it reaches to the interminable future. It turns
almost with disgust from the bright prospects
which religion offers for the consolation and sup-
port of the wretched, and to which I was early
taught, by an almost adored mother, to look
forward with hope and joy ; but to me they can
afford no consolation. Not that I doubt the sa-
cred troths that religion inculcates. . I cannot
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434 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
doubt — thongh I confess I have sometimes tried
to do so, because I no longer wish for that im-
mortality of which it assures us. My only wish
now is for rest and peace — endless rest. ^ For
rest — but not to feel 't is rest,' but I cannot de-
lude myself with the hope that such rest will be
my lot I feel an internal evidence, stronger
than any arguments that reason or religion can
enforce, that I have that within me which is im-
perishable ; that drew not its origin from the
^ dod of the valley.' With this conviction, but
without a hope to brighten the prospect of that
dread fiiture, —
' I dare not look beyond the. tomb,
Tet cannot hope for peace before.'
^Such an unhappy frame of mind, I am sure,
madam, must excite your commiseration. It is
perhaps owing, in part at least, to the solitude in
which I have lived, I may say, even in the midst
of society, when I have mixed in it, as my in-
firmities entirely exclude me from that sweet in-
tercourse of kindred spirits — that sweet solace
of refined conversation; the little intercourse I
have at any time with those around me cannot
be termed conversation, — Jthey are not kindred
spirits ; — and even where circumstances have
associated me (but rarely indeed) with superior
and cultivated minds, who have not disdained to
admit me to their society, they could not by all
their generous efforts, even in early youth, lure
from my dark soul the thoughts that loved to lie
buried there, nor inspire me with the courage to
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NEW8TEAD AB^REY. 485
attempt their disclosure ; and yet of all the pleas*
tires of polished life which fancy has often pic-
tured to me in such vivid colors, there is not one
that I have so ardently coveted as that sweet
reciprocation of ideas, the supreme bliss of en-
lightened minds in the hour of social converse
But this I knew was not decreed for me, —
*■ Yet thlfl was in my nature, —
but since the loss of my hearing, I have alway»
been incapable of verbal conversation. I need
not, however, inform you, madam, of this. At
the first interview with which you favored me,
you quickly discovered my pecidiar unhappiness
in this respect : you perceived, from my manner,
that any attempt to draw me into conversation
would be in vain: had it been otherwise, per-
haps you would not have disdained now and then
to have soothed the lonely wanderer with yours.
I have sometimes fancied, when I have seen you
in the walk, that you seemed to wish to encour-
age me to throw myself in your way. Pardon
me if my imagination, too apt to beguile me with
such dear illusions, has deceived me into too pre-
sumptuous an idea here. You must have ob-
served that I generally endeavored to avoid both
you and Colonel "Wildman. It was to spare your
generous hearts the pain of witnessing distress
you could not/ alleviate. Thus cut off, as it were,
fix)m all human society, I have been compelled
to live in a world of my own, and certainly with
the beings with which my world is peopled I am
at no loss to converse. But, though I love soli-
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48fi CRAYON MiaCELLANT.
tade and am never in want of subjects to amuse
my fancy, yet solitude too much indulged in must
necessarily have an unhappy effect upon the mind,
which, when left to seek for resources wholly
within itself, will unavoidably, in hours of gloom
and despondency, brood over corroding thoughts
that prey upon the spirits, and sometimes termi-
nate in confirmed misanthropy — especially with
those who, from constitution or early misfortunes,
^re inclined to melancholy, and to view human
nature in its dark shades. And have I not cause
for gloomy reflections ? The utter loneliness of
my lot would alone have rendered existence a
curse to one whose heart nature has formed glow->
ing with all the warmth of social affection, yet
without an object on which to place it — • without
one natural connection, one earthly Mend to ap*
peal to, to shield me from the contempt, indig-
nities, and insults, to which my deserted situation
continually exposed me."
I am giving long extracts from this letter, yet
I caimot re&ain from subjoining another letter,
which depicts her feelings with respect to New-
stead.
"Permit me, madam, again to request your
and. Colonel Wildman's acceptance of those ac-
knowledgments which I cannot too often repeat,
for your unexampled goodness to a rude stranger.
I know I ought not to have taken advantage of
your extreme good-nature so frequently as I have.
I should have absented myself £rom your garden
during the stay of the company at the Abbey ;
bul^ as I knew I must be gone long before they
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NEW8TEAD ABBET. 437
would leave it, I could, not deny myself the indul*
gence, as you so freely gave me your pennission to
continue my walks ; but now they are at an end.
I have taken my last farewell of every dear and
interestLog spot^ which I now never hope to see
again, unless my disembodied spirit may be per*
mitted to revisit them. — Yet, oh ! if Providence
should enable me again to support myself with
any degree of respectability, and you should
grant me some little humble shed, with what joy
shall I return and renew my delightful rambles.
But dear as Newstead is to me, I will never again
come under the same unhappy circumstances
as I have this last time — never without the
means of at least securing kiyself from contempt.
How dear, how very dear Newstead is to me,
how unconquerable the infatuation that possesses
me, I am now going to give a too. convincing
proo£ In offering to your acceptance the worth-
less trifles that will accompany this, I hope you
will believe that I have no view to your amuse-
ment. I dare not hope that the consideration
of their being the products of your own garden,
and most of them written there, in my little tab-
let, while sitting at the foot of my Altar — I
could not, I cannot resist the earnest desire of
leaving this memorial of the many happy hours
I have there enjoyed. Oh I do not reject them,
madam ; suffer them to remain with you ; and if
you should deign to honor them with a perusal,
when you read them, repress, if you can, the
smile that I know will too naturally arise when
you recollect the appearance of the wretched
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488 CHAYON MIBCELLANT,
being who has dared to devote her whole sonl to
the coutemplation of such more than human ex-
cellence. Yet ridiculous as such devotion may
appear to some, I must take leave to saj, that^
if the sentiments which I have entertained for
that exalted being could be duly appreciated, I
trust they would be found to be of such a na-
ture as is no dishonor even for him to have
inspired." ....
'^ I am now coming to take a last, last view of
scenes too deeply impressed upon my memory
ever to be effaced even by madness itself. O
madam! may you never know, nor be able to
conceive the agony I endure in tearing myself
from all that the world contains of dear and sa-
cred to me : the only spot on earth where I can
ever hope for peace or comfort. — May every
blessing the worJd has to bestow attend you, or,
rather, may you long, long live in the enjoyment
of the delights of your own paradise, in secret
seclusion from a world that has no real blessings
to bestow. Now I go ; — but O might I dare to
hope that, when you are enjoying these blissful
scenes, a thought of the unhappy wanderer might
sometimes cross your mind, how soothing would
such an idea be, if I dared to indulge it ; — could
you see my heart at this moment, how needless
would it be to assure you of the respectful grati-
tude, the affectionate esteem, this heart must ever
bear you both.**
The effect of this letter upon the sensitive
heart of Mrs. Wildman may be more readily
conceived than expressed. Her first impulse was
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NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 439
to give a home to this poor homeless being, and
to fix her in the midst of those scenes which
formed her earthly paradise. She communicated
her wishes to Colonel Wildman, and they met
with an immediate response in his generous bosom.
It was settled on the spot, that an apartment
should be fitted up for the Little White Lady in
one of the new farm-houses, and every arrange-
ment made for her comfortable and permanent
maintenance on the estate. With a woman's
prompt benevolence, Mrs. Wildman, before she
laid her head upon her pillow, wrote the following
letter to the destitute stranger : —
" NewBtead Abbey, Tuesday night, Sept. 20th, 1826.
" On retiring to my bedchamber this evening 1
have opened your letter, and cannot lose a mo-
ment in expressing to you the strong interest
which it has excited both in Colonel Wildman
and myself, from the details of your peculiar sit-
uation, and the delicate, and, let me add, elegant
language in which they are conveyed. I am
anxious that my note should reach you previous
to your departure from this neighborhood, and
should be truly happy if, by any arrangement for
your accommodation, I could prevent the neces-
sity of your undertaking the journey. Colonel
Wildman begs me to assure you that he will use
his best exertion in the investigation of those
matters which you have confided to him, and
should you remain here at present, or return
again after a short absence, I trust we shall find
means to become better acquainted, and to con-
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440 CRAYON MISCELLANY.
vince jou of the interest I feel, and the real satr
is£iction it would afford me to coutribute in any
way to your comfort and happiness. I will only
now add my thanks for the little packet which I
received with your letter, and I must confess that
the letter has so entirely engaged my attention,
that I have not as yet had time for the attentive
perusal of its companion.
'^ Believe me, dear madam,
" vith sincere good wishes,
** Yours truly,
*^ Louisa Wildmak."
Early the next morning a servant was dis-
patched with the letter to the Weir Mill farm,
but returned with l^e information that the Little
White Lady had set off, before his arrival, in
company with the farmer's wife, in a cart for
Nottingham, to take her place in the coach for
London. Mrs. Wildman ordered him to mount
horse instantly, follow with all speed, and deliver
the letter into her hand before the departure of
the coach.
The bearer of good tidings spared neither
whip nor spur, and arrived at Nottingham on a
gallop. On entering the town, a crowd obstructed
him in the principal street He checked his
horse to make his way through it quietly. As
the crowd opened to the right and le^ he beheld
a human body lying on the pavement. It was
the corpse of the Little White Lady !
It seems, that, on arriving in town and dis-
mounting firom the cart, the farmer's wife had
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NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 441
parted with her to go on an errand, and the
Little White Ladj continued on toward the coach-
office. In crossing a street, a cart came along,
driven at a rapid rate. The driver called out to
her, but she was too deaf to hear his voice or the
rattling of his cart. In an instant she was
knocked down by the horse, the wheels passed
over her bodj, and she died without a groan.
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